


Dirk and Jane Go to the Circus

by Quilly



Series: Life with Dirk and Jane [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen, Lil Cal as a human, M/M, Oh wait, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, TW: Abusive relationship (past mention), TW: Chucklevoodooing murderclowns, TW: Kinky physical abuse, answer the question dirk, but i think i got them all, craptastic action sequences are my life, dirk is going to be an uncle and he's not sure how he feels about this, do you or do you not want your relationship to go back how it was?, i thought we were done with tentacles, if i forget any trigger warnings please let me know, in which everyone is reborn into the new planet, in which jane crocker is back y'all, jane crocker is Not Quite Right At All, roxy is a super secret agent man, welcome to Altville, where in the world is Bro Strider, where the quadrants are different and the points don't matter!, who decided it would be a good idea to give him a body, who writes this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dirk Strider and your roommate is driving you nuts.</p><p>In which Jane Crocker is not quite right at all, Karkat Vantas ruins all the things, Li'l Cal is a puppet in a human body, Kurloz Makara has a funny pipe, Roxy Lalonde is a super secret agent man, and Dirk Strider has to answer his own questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirk and Jane Go to the Circus

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to do it, but I was compelled by the muses to do it, so here it is, folks, the ABSOLUTE LAST mystery, the final installment of the Life with Dirk and Jane (though not necessarily Sherlockbound) series. 
> 
> Be forewarned that this installment may have more disturbing content than the last, owing to a human Li'l Cal who has a complicated past with Dirk Strider and the direct involvement of the Mirthful Church, which likes its Faygo bloody. I tagged everything I can think of, but if you have triggers, be careful.
> 
> Enjoy!

Your name is Dirk Strider and your roommate is driving you up the wall.

 

It’s been relatively quiet lately, especially now that the hoopla over her return has died down to the topic of gossip columns and early morning college radio shows, and it’s been at least a month and a half since her last case. As it turned out, the murderer was attempting to build a new species with a mishmash of different people’s body parts. The case was over fairly quickly, even by Jane’s standards. You were almost bored.

 

At this very moment, she’s tapping her pen against her clipboard as she comes up with a menu and grocery list. You’ve been plumbed for all your dinner ideas and snack requests, and now she seems to be stuck on how to fill the rest of the space. Even with your continued salary from Jade—yes, you went back to being her pack mule, it wasn’t so bad a gig after all—money’s a little tight right now. The sooner she’s able to pick up some big-name cases, the easier your life will be. Theoretically.

 

Tap, tap, tap.

 

Rather than snap at her, like you made the mistake of doing early on in your renewed roommateship, you resolve to use some of her own medicine against her. Not verbally, because she has the tact to keep her observations to herself, but nonetheless, you use the cover of your shades to openly scrutinize her.

 

She’s still thinner than you would like, but five months of regular meals and enforced sleep courtesy of awkward cuddles and maybe some Benadryl have done wonders for her figure. She looks less like a skeleton and more like a woman again. However, her eyes still have that shadowed, pouchy look to them, so nightmares. Unconsciously rubbing circles into her thigh, where you have seen a shiny patch of skin she’s written off as an accident. You wonder how much of an accident it truly was and then shake yourself out of it. She isn’t telling you everything, which is alright. She lets you keep most of your secrets, after all. Shaved her legs recently. Trimmed her own hair and missed a spot. Squinting even when her glasses are on—when was the last time she saw an eye doctor? Or any doctor?

 

She glances at you. “I’m fine, Dirk.”

 

“I never said you weren’t,” you reply, and feel a twinge of mixed pride and sulking. “How many more meals do you need?”

 

“Three,” she replies. “If I leave two days open for takeout.”

 

You shrug. “Pick up some frozen pizzas. We’ll deal.”

 

She adds them to the list and stands, shoving the pen into the clip and taking out the list, folding it in half. “’kay. Be back soon.”

 

“Be safe,” you say, and are very pleased when you don’t involuntarily twitch as she walks out the door. You’re getting better.

 

It used to be she’d come back from grocery shopping and you would hover, making sure she was really back, making sure she wasn’t hurt. You’ve been slowly learning to let go since that first painful month. All her enemies are dead now. She’s never been safer.

 

Or more bored, you think, and are almost amused.

 

She’s gone for exactly eighty-three minutes.

 

You wait until she’s asleep that night before pulling out a box from under your bed. Your little bro and his crazy troll girlfriend are having a baby (via surrogate mother, as it happens), and you promised you’d dig up some of his old baby stuff for nostalgic purposes. The truth is, you’ve never had to go digging very far. You’ve been lugging this stuff around with you since you and Dave parted ways. You pop the box open and take out what’s on top—the baby album.

 

This has both yours and Dave’s baby pictures, taken by your Bro, who you suspect was probably actually your father, but you’ve never been able to get a straight answer out of him. Especially not since he left. Not that it ever really mattered, but even if he never said it all you’ve gotta do is look at this album and you know that, at least for a little while, Bro actually did care about you and Dave. There are way too many pictures of your and Dave’s pudgy baby faces for it to be completely ironic. You sigh and close the album. Terezi’ll get a kick out of it, even if Dave doesn’t. You need to remember to take most of your pages out.

 

Under the album is a folded napkin, and you freeze.

 

You thought you tossed everything. You could’ve sworn you did. Yet…there it is, the marionette logo stamped on the corner in purple, and…you unfold it…yeah, it’s still there. You should throw this away right now. But you touch the scribbled message and the arcade token and feel a shiver run through you. Hurriedly you fold it back up and shove it under your mattress. You aren’t going to think about this right now.

 

You go through the rest of the box and set it aside to bring over to Dave’s tomorrow. You crawl on your bed. Toss and turn a little. Scuttle to the end of the bed and fish the cloth napkin back out.

 

You wonder if he remembers you.

 

You fail to make the distinction of which “he” you mean anymore.

 

==>

 

You’re right; in his way, Dave gets a kick out of looking at the album and the little shades and the ironic onesies again, and his surrogate, a big woman by the name of Minnesota Madsden, laughs so hard she rattles your teeth. Her belly has a gentle curve to it now, and you still can’t make the connection that that little bump is genetically half your brother’s. Weird.

 

Jane smiles at you when you get back. “Have fun?”

 

“Loads,” you grunt, but you’re grinning. “What’s your plan for today, Miss Crocker?”

 

She shrugs. “John wants me to help him pick a picture to go on the wedding announcements. He’s supposed to email me the files soon.”

 

You shake your head. Kids are all growing up way too fast. Apparently Jane thinks so, too, because as soon as you sit down she shuffles over and leans against your shoulder, and you see that she has some pictures of John as a kid pulled up.

 

It’s another quiet day of sitting around and doing nothing, but tomorrow is Monday and you have to go back to work. Jane chuckles when you complain to her of this fact.

 

“You could always ask Jade to be transferred back into development, you know,” she smiles, and you shrug.

 

“I stick around her long enough, I get to work on some of her own little projects. It’s fun.” You scratch your ear. “So…uh…planning on doing anything else?”

 

She glances up at you. “Why?”

 

You shrug. “Dunno. Maybe thought we could go catch a movie or something.”

 

There’s something in her face that makes you wanna blush like a middle schooler when she looks at you again. “A movie?”

 

“Yeah. A movie. Like. One of those picture shows.” You shrug again. “Could get all fancied up and use up one of those takeout days. Make a date out of it.”

 

“A date,” she says, and your heart leaps into your throat. That wasn’t exactly where you imagined this conversation going, but…uh…you don’t… _dislike_ it, either. The exact opposite. “That sounds—”

 

Her phone rings. She frowns, holds up a finger, and answers it.

 

“Hello?”

 

It’s a man’s voice that answers her. She listens carefully, types down an address one-handed, asks a couple of questions about times and directions, and then thanks them and hangs up. You look at her.

 

“Case?”

 

“Case,” she affirms.

 

“Do you want me to come with you?”

 

“If Jade can spare you,” she nods, and stands up. “I need to do a little research. Help yourself to a frozen pizza.”

 

You watch her as she retreats back into her room with her laptop and feel a little tendril of disappointment in your gut.

 

==>

 

She crawls into your bed in the middle of the night and about scares you out of your skin, because she’s freezing and a little damp.

 

“Jane?” you mumble as she curls against your back. “Wha’s—why are you wet?”

 

“Been out—outside,” she says around a sneeze. “Told you. Had to do some research.”

 

You turn over and gather her up against you, rubbing her down a little to create more heat. “What kind of research?”

 

She doesn’t answer immediately, her face pressed into your chest, but eventually she shifts. The warmth is returning to her digits, at least.

 

“Our client,” she says. “His name was familiar to me. Wanted to make sure it was a legitimate claim rather than a trap.”

 

“Is it?” you ask.

 

“As it goes,” she nods. “His name’s Calvin Little. He’s a—”

 

“I know who he is,” you say roughly. She blinks.

 

“You do?”

 

You jerk a nod, but don’t elaborate. She studies you, frowns, but continues.

 

“He wants us to investigate a disappearance in his company, a troll woman who used to be his secretary until she went missing over a week ago.”

 

“Over a week?” you frown. “Why didn’t he go to the cops? Why hasn’t anyone else?”

 

“He says she didn’t have any family or friends. Kept to herself. He only just noticed she never showed up for work after a vacation she was supposed to take.” The set to Jane’s mouth is familiar.

 

“You think he has something to do with it?” you ask, and a thrill runs up your spine as she nods.

 

“Maybe not directly, but I think he knows more than he initially let on,” she shrugs. “I went to check out the office building. Gather some preliminary data.”

 

“Did you—did you _break in?_ ” you ask. She nods.

 

“Wasn’t terribly hard. I’ve disabled trickier alarm systems in my sleep,” she shrugs. “I pulled Ms. Weller’s company file and got her address, then poked around in Mr. Little’s office.”

 

You’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that she broke into a building (without you, no less), but the idea that she was in Little’s office makes your blood run simultaneously hot and cold.

 

“What…what did you find?” you ask, and cover your falter with a yawn.

 

“Nothing of consequence,” she shrugs. “We can talk more about it in the morning. Goodnight, Dirk.”

 

She briefly presses her arms around you in a small hug, then goes to leave. You think about asking her to stay. You think too long. The door closes with a small click. You roll back over and absently touch the napkin, which you’ve shoved in the space between your bedframe and the wall, then right yourself and snatch your hand back.

 

You are playing a dangerous game, Mr. Strider.

 

==>

 

She tells you what she knows on the way to Mr. Little’s firm. If she notices your hands shaking a little as you drive, she doesn’t comment.

 

“Her name is Vinnia Weller, a red-blooded female troll in her late thirties,” Jane says. “She lives alone in an apartment a few blocks from the firm. She has no family listed, which is common for trolls, I’ll admit, but her desk was completely devoid of any personal items other than a few post-it notes and a kitty calendar. You and me will be checking out her apartment as soon as we’ve met with Mr. Little.”

 

You jerk a nod.

 

“She was scheduled to go on a four-day vacation two weeks ago, which she took, but then she failed to show up for work all last week. Mr. Little claims he didn’t notice, as he was in the middle of a merger at the time and Ms. Weller doesn’t handle much more than fetching his coffee, but I very much doubt he didn’t notice. I think it’s more likely he either didn’t care enough to report it, or he knows more than he was willing to share over the phone,” Jane continues. There is a dark undertone to her voice that wasn’t there before, but you approve. At least where Little is concerned.

 

Little & Little looks the same as you remember, perhaps with some new shrubberies. And a long rod on the roof, which you can’t fathom the reason for but figure it’s probably for long-distance conference calls. It’s an impressive building, if a bit grimier than an investment firm should be. You look at it as you park and swallow hard against the involuntary panic. Jane cautiously touches your wrist.

 

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to,” she says, and you shake your head.

 

“I’m coming.”

 

“Alright, then.”

 

Jane is supposed to lead the way, but your feet remember the steps more readily than you’d like. It’s been ten years since you’ve been here. You wish so many details weren’t surfacing, weren’t the same. Just outside of the door to the floor you need, you stop, and nod at Jane as she cocks her head.

 

“After you,” you say, and stay an obedient two steps behind her the rest of the way.

 

As she said, Ms. Weller’s desk is empty, so Jane flounces right past and knocks on Mr. Little’s door. You wrestle down the impulse to run. Or hide. Or just in general get the eff out of dodge.

 

Calvin Little opens the door and _beams_.

 

He was never a terribly attractive man, and time has not been good to him. His face is waxy and stiff, cheeks red, eyes a flat, soulless blue. Nevertheless, when he looks at you, a hot lance of _something_ stabs you in the belly. Nerves or arousal, you’re not sure which, they’re one and the same with him.

 

“Miss Crocker,” he says, and his voice is still surprisingly high-pitched. He shakes her hand. “Do come in.” He stops you with his eyes. “And my, my. Dirk Strider. It’s been a very long time.”

 

You nod.

 

“Taciturn as ever, I see,” he laughs, and holds out his hand to shake. You do and let go very quickly. Mr. Little squeaks a laugh and puts his hand on Jane’s shoulder, steering her into the room. You clench your jaw a little.

 

He has the same desk he had ten years ago. Nice desk. Solid. Hand-carved, according to him. The sparse picture frames and knickknacks have changed around, but leaning up against a stapler is an arcade coin stamped with a puppet, the match to the one stuffed in a napkin under your bed. Your gut spasms again.

 

“Mr. Little, I was wondering if you could answer some questions regarding the case,” Jane says, her voice brisk. Mr. Little leans back in his chair.

 

“Call me Cal,” he says, and winks at you.

 

“Mr. Little, if you please,” Jane says, and while her voice is no less brisk it is also very lightly edged. You feel a glow of satisfaction. “When did you first notice Ms. Weller hadn’t shown up for work?”

 

“Thursday,” he says easily.

 

“And why did you wait until Sunday to contact me?”

 

“I was busy.”

 

“And why me, not the police?”

 

Mr. Little leans forward a little on his desk. “Why wait for the police to bungle the job, eh?” He winks. You can practically see Jane’s back stiffen. “Besides, I think you can resolve this little mystery fairly quickly without all the red tape.”

 

“Mr. Little, what was Ms. Weller to you?” she asks. “Simply your secretary, or something…more?”

 

Mr. Little shrugs. “I wasn’t banging her, if that’s what you’re asking. Trolls aren’t my type. Well,” he laughs, “not rustbloods.”

 

You feel a little ill.

 

“How many days of work had she missed before you noticed?” Jane plows on.

 

“I dunno. Probably two or three.” He stretches a little. “I was in the middle of adding another firm to my repertoire, so _pardonnez-moi_ if I didn’t notice that one employee wasn’t showing up to do her job.”

 

“She’s your personal secretary, Mr. Little, how could you not notice?” Jane frowns.

 

“Miss Crocker, I have three PAs who do my bidding. Forgive me if I don’t notice that the lackluster coffee and sour attitude are missing from my workspace,” Mr. Little says, voice still genial as ever. “Now let me ask you a question: do you think you can solve this case?”

 

“Of course,” she says, “I’m just gathering the necessary facts.”

 

“Right, right, of course,” Mr. Little grins. “Now, if we could keep the police out of this, I’d be much obliged. Could get a little…messy, if a certain cop sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong. For everyone.”

 

Your eyebrows contract one brief second.

 

“I will do what I can,” Jane says, and stands. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Little.”

 

“You’ll get a check when I know Ms. Weller’s whereabouts,” Mr. Little says lazily. As you’re exiting, he calls, “Dirk.”

 

You freeze.

 

“Good to see you.”  His voice is a pitch lower and filled with mirth, like you’re sharing a secret. You nod stiffly and follow after Jane.

 

==>

 

Ms. Weller’s apartment is as sparse as her desk.

 

“This can’t be everything,” you frown. “Are we sure someone didn’t clean up after her?”

 

“Sure,” Jane nods. “There would be signs if someone had.” She touches the wall. “No discolorations where pictures might have hung, or signs of nail marks or tape or anything like that. No dust on the shelves that’s been disturbed, no unnecessary clutter, nothing.” She crosses her arms. “It’s like Ms. Weller was trying to take up the least amount of space possible.”

 

You’re not exactly a hoarder, but the lack of personal touches is bringing you down a little.

 

“Who wants to live so…Spartan?” you ask.

 

“Ms. Weller, apparently,” Jane says absently. She’s riffling through a file cabinet. “Nothing in here but tax forms.”

 

You shove your hands in your pockets. “Where was she taking her vacation?”

 

“She didn’t say,” Jane shrugs. “No one asked.”

 

Something isn’t sitting right with you at all here.

 

“I’m gonna check the kitchen,” you say, and she grunts. You find a jug of sour milk and a plastic-wrapped plate of grubloaf in the fridge, and in the cabinets nothing more exciting than a plastic spork in the utensils drawer. You have trouble believing anyone could be so bland.

 

“Dirk,” Jane calls sharply, and you hustle to the bedroom. There’s a recuperacoon in the corner, a pile of blankets next to it, and nothing else of note inside the room, but Jane’s standing outside the closet, her mouth a grim slash. You stand next to her and swear.

 

“Now where have we seen that before?” you say, and she nods.

 

Painted all over the walls in what you initially thought was dark red paint but now realize is probably her blood is a lot of dark circusy-type drawings—smiley and frowny faces with big noses, tents, some Alternian gibberish you don’t understand, clubs, a badly-drawn Faygo bottle. It brings back memories of Jessica Bennet’s murder in less than five seconds. The clothes, uniform black and burgundy, have all been tossed in the floor, on top of which you see a—

 

“Crocker Corp phone,” Jane says, and you nod as she gingerly picks it up. “These have been inactive for over six months.”

 

“Give it to me,” you say, and she passes it over. You take it to the kitchen table, grab a butter knife and a meat tenderizer, and pry it open.

 

There it is, pulsating pink and sinister in the wiring, very much alive. Jane’s brow furrows.

 

“That makes no sense,” she says. “I thought Sollux and Roxy—”

 

“They did,” you nod. “Which probably means—”

 

“This was manufactured and sold after the fact,” Jane finishes. “But who? Who had the know-how or the…the…” she trails off. She hugs herself, fists clenching her arms, and sits down on the floor.

 

“Jane?” you ask cautiously. She breathes slowly through her nose.

 

“I’m okay,” she says automatically. “I’m okay.”

 

She’s not. But you let her have her moment and only interfere when she looks at you, eyes still cloudy but focused.

 

“Let’s go grab some lunch,” she says when she’s standing again. She swipes the phone, snaps it closed, and puts it in her pocket.

 

You go without a fuss. You’re ready to be out of this apartment.

 

==>

 

You and Jane swing by McDonald’s and pick up an extra meal, because you are going to visit Roxy. Roxy is overjoyed to see you two, and hugs Jane a little tighter and longer than normal before swooping in to catch her food.

 

“What’s up, Janey-Jane?” she asks, sucking down a gulp of chocolate milkshake before tearing into her burger.

 

“I need a favor, Ro-Lal,” Jane grins, and produces the phone. Roxy stops mid-chew and glares at it.

 

“Thought we were done with those,” she says sharply.

 

“This belongs to a troll who’s been missing for possibly two weeks,” you say. “She had a lot of freaky clown crap painted inside her closet. The wire’s active.”

 

Roxy swallows. “Why bring it to me? Why not Jade?”

 

“Jade is too close to Karkat,” Jane replies. “And for the safety of the victim, I’d rather keep this as far from the police as possible.”

 

Roxy nods. “Dirky, you gonna poke around in it?”

 

You nod. “And I need you to see if you can trace the signal once I wake it up.”

 

“I’m on it,” she shrugs. “Let me get set up.” She stares hard at you. “But, hey, if that thing starts trying to hijack your brain, I’mma let you have it with the butt of my rifle, okay?”

 

“Okay,” you nod.

 

You’re not sure a solid hit to the head is good protection against chucklevoodoos. But yeah _right_ are you gonna poke it alone. So you wait until she finishes her food, gets her computer set up, and sit a cool and respectable distance away with the phone in hand.

 

You work at it for almost an hour, prodding the wire and trying to make it do something. You even have Jane call the phone, but that doesn’t do much more than make the phone’s innards buzz.

 

“This is pointless,” you say, frustrated.

 

“Maybe it’s only active during certain times,” Jane suggests. “We should wait until night to see if anything changes.”

 

“That sounds like buckets of fun,” Roxy sighs.

 

“Where’s Jake?” you ask.

 

Roxy smiles, but it’s a tired smile. “He’s oot and aboot in the world, Di-Stri. Plundering ancient tombs and foreign tongues.”

 

Her voice is resigned. Jane glances at you. You don’t know what to tell her, because even you don’t know what’s up with Roxy and Jake most of the time. You doubt they even know. To be honest…you don’t want to ask. Not because you don’t want to know how your best friends are doing, but because you’re afraid of what you might stir up if you bring it up.

 

You never said you weren’t a coward.

 

You stretch. “I’m gonna use the bathroom.” You toss Jane a look, which you think she gets, and march off to lock yourself in the bathroom. Ear pressed to the door, of course, because you wanna hear what’s going on, too. You don’t think Roxy will open up to you just yet. She needs her Janey time. Always did.

 

“Roxy?” you hear Jane ask, “is…everything okay, with you and Jake?”

 

“Define ‘okay’,” Roxy says, and snorts. “I guess it’s kinda weird for you, huh? We were all happy coupley when you left, and now we’re just kind of…” she apparently makes a gesture, because Jane snorts a giggle.

 

“I guess I underestimated how much I’d miss by leaving,” she says. “If you don’t wanna say, I’m not forcing you, I mean I’m just—”

 

“No, it’s cool,” Roxy says, and sighs. “Me and Jake…are kinda doing the friends with benefits thing?”

 

Okay. News to you.

 

“I mean, we love each other,” Roxy continues, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re just using each other to blow off steam, but…we just keep trying and trying and trying to have a Thing, and the Thing keeps dying. He’s gone for too long, or I get bored, or we get in a fight, just—just dumb stuff, you know?”

 

“Roxy,” Jane says tentatively, “if things aren’t working out…why are you staying with him?”

 

“Because when things are good,” she says tiredly, “they’re _good_ , Janey. And the bad ain’t so bad, y’know? I like where I live, I like not having to pay rent through the nose, I like—I like having a cuddlebuddy when I got nobody else.”

 

“It doesn’t sound healthy,” Jane sighs, and you agree, but you know the tenor of both of their voices. Jane is gonna let Roxy make her own choices. Roxy is going to dig in. You need to have a similar talk with Jake one of these days, because if they end up seriously hurting each other you’re going to smack them both.

 

“It’s prolly not. But it’s what we’ve got,” Roxy says. “He keeps me off the bottle. I give him someplace to come home to. It ain’t so bad, Janey. I just miss him right now, is all.”

 

“When you say you love each other,” Jane says, “do you mean you’re _in_ love?”

 

Roxy takes a long time to answer.

 

“No,” she says, “I don’t think we are.”

 

Your heart kinda crumbles to powder inside your chest.

 

“I’m okay with that,” Roxy says, and her voice is small, but strong. “I got you guys. I got friends out the whazoo who are the bestest. What do I need romance for?”

 

There’s giggling and you think they’re hugging, probably.

 

“You’re welcome to crash at mine and Dirk’s if you need a place to go ever, Rox,” Jane says.

 

“I know,” Roxy replies. “Alright, I spilled. Now it’s your turn.”

 

“My turn?” Jane says, and you wonder if it would be too suspect if you turned the fan on in here. You don’t think you wanna hear this.

 

“Yeah!” Roxy chirps. “What’s the word on you and Dirky, Janey? Is the pale thing back on? Is it perhaps—” she gasps comically, “— _flushed?_ ”

 

Jane laughs. “Oh, you want to hear about that, do you?”

 

She sounds too confident. You lean your head back a little more against the door.

 

“Yeah, that! Gimme the goods, sister!”

 

“Well,” Jane says, her voice conspiratorial, “what’s going on right now is…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Is…”

 

“ _Yes?_ ”

 

“…nothing.”

 

Nothing?

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Nothing.

 

“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like nothin’ to me, Janey-Jane.”

 

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Roxy,” Jane shrugs.

 

“Well, tell me the juicy details! Are there cuddles? Are there secret glances across the room? Is there,” she lowers her voice dramatically, “ _romantic tension?_ ”

 

Jane laughs. You really missed her laugh, and she hasn’t done it much since she’s been home. “Yes, we cuddle. Sometimes. Mostly we just…coexist.”

 

“It’s not the same, huh?” Roxy asks.

 

“No,” Jane says, and her voice is getting soft and sad. “It isn’t.”

 

A long pause.

 

“Did you want it to be?”

 

Did she? Do _you?_

 

“I don’t know.”

 

That’s…fair.

 

You wait until Roxy starts talking about shoes and then flush the toilet and come out of the bathroom.

 

“You were in there for a while, Di-Stri,” Roxy winks. “Everything okay?”

 

“I drank a water tower,” you say, and carefully don’t look at Jane. “Know when Jake’s getting back?”

 

“Couple weeks, I think,” Roxy shrugs, and she looks calm and composed about it. “We’re gonna do a thing as soon as he’s back. All four of us.”

 

“What thing?” you ask, and from then on the afternoon and subsequent evening melt into talking Roxy out of schemes like stealing the Declaration of Independence and sneaking into Disney World and the like. It’s fun. You missed being the voice of reason with Jane. You still can’t quite look her in the face. That middle-schooler blushing up a storm in your chest has taken up residence again for some reason. This is stupid.

 

( _Did she? Do you?_ )

 

==>

 

It’s sometime around eleven when the whispers start up.

 

You jerk awake, then throw something at Roxy. “Roxy. Rox. Wake up.”

 

“Wasn’t me, officer,” she mumbles as she startles awake, then yawns. “Dirk? What’s—”

 

“It’s talking,” you say, and she rubs her eyes, instantly alert.

 

“Don’t listen too hard. Bring it over here and let me hook it up. Then go get some toilet paper to shove in everyone’s ears.”

 

You follow her instructions. Once your makeshift earplugs are in place, you go to shake Jane awake to help her out. She’s muttering under her breath and writhing a little, and as you put your hand on her you see she’s scratched herself in a few places.

 

“Jane.” You shake her hard. “Jane, come on. Wake up. Snap out of it.”

 

She fights for a few moments, then her eyes snap open. For a second, you almost think her eyes have a purplish gleam. Then they’re blue, blue, blue, and you hand her the earplugs.

 

“Wire’s whispering.”

 

She accepts them without comment and shoves them in her ears. You sit down next to her and haul her over, her head in your lap, and you stroke her hair as she tucks herself back into a ball.

 

The set to Roxy’s shoulders gets tighter, until she trades the toilet paper for her headphones and blasts her music so loud you can hear it all the way on the couch. You doze off again while she works. It’s well past three when she shakes you and Jane back awake.

 

“Found it,” she grins. “Different site than last time, made it harder, but I got it.”

 

Jane takes out the toilet paper and shoves herself off your lap. “Excellent. Where?”

 

She hands a slip of paper to Jane. Jane reads it. Jane laughs, short and ugly. She hands it to you. You feel something curdle up and die inside.

 

It’s the address to Little & Little.

 

==>

 

“Alright, we need a plan,” Jane says plaintively on the way home the next morning.

 

“And I suppose moving out of the country isn’t a good plan?” you say, only half-joking.

 

“Not generally,” she shakes her head. “Look at Jake.”

 

Touché.

 

“From my experience,” she continues, “the transmission is approximately the same chucklevoodoo as was getting broadcasted when the phones were all active, which means either it’s the same troll or one of equal power. I find the latter harder to believe, since the only other two trolls I know of who could match the original are both benign.” She rubs her thigh. “As to why the transmission is coming from Little & Little…I can’t say.”

 

“Possible the grand poobah murderclown is working with Little?” you ask. Your voice is harsher than you meant it to be. She glances at you.

 

“Possibly. But I would rather focus on trying to find Ms. Weller right now.”

 

You don’t say how the two are probably connected. She knows. You’ll shut up and let her brain work.

 

You also don’t mention how you still don’t know where she was taking her vacation, or the fact that there was no sign of a struggle inside the apartment, or any of those things. She’s Jane. She’ll figure it out.

 

You take over making dinner. Pasta ain’t so hard, and she’s looking a little worse for wear tonight. She eats what you put in her hands, doesn’t protest at you also doing the dishes, and mostly sits on the couch and stares into space. You’re not sure if she’s remembering or if she’s working, but either way she’s making you nervous. You snap your fingers in front of her face. She jolts up.

 

“What?”

 

“Just checking to make sure you’re still breathing,” you say, and quirk a little half-grin at her when she stares at you. “Any ideas?”

 

“To find out where she’s gone,” she says, “we’ll need to check her bank accounts.”

 

“We’re not allowed to do that,” you say, and sigh. Roxy is good for a lot of things, but you’re not going to have her do something quite that illegal. “What now?”

 

“Two options,” Jane shrugs. “Either we hack the bank ourselves and fish it out, or we involve the police.”

 

“Both of which are basically non-options,” you point out.

 

“Possibly,” Jane muses. “Hacking ourselves would take far too much time and involve equipment we don’t have or people we don’t want getting in trouble. Involving Detective Vantas means possibly putting Ms. Weller at further risk, but it would also give us more manpower and more authority.”

 

You watch her as she thinks. “Any chance we could just tell Karkat?”

 

“You know how he is. If he catches wind of this it’ll be by the book and his way.” She chuckles. “Not that doing it his way hasn’t served us well in the past, but this time…this time I…” she trails off and chews her lip. You scoot a little closer to her on the couch.

 

“You want to prove you’ve still got it,” you say quietly, and she nods.

 

“Karkat is a good friend and a good cop. But this one’s mine.” She’s rubbing her thigh again. She’s got to tell you that story in better detail one day. “I can handle it.”

 

You hear an echo of a girl who was telling herself that once and shake your head to clear it of the echo of a grainy gunshot.

 

“True,” you say, “but you don’t have to handle it alone.”

 

She looks at you like she’s never seen you before. You shrug, tilt the corners of your mouth up for a moment, and stand to leave. Her hand catches yours.

 

You stare at each other for a full minute, trying to decide what to do, what she wants, what you want. Her fingers enforce their grip on yours.

 

“Thank you,” she says. “For coming with me.”

 

You nod slowly. You wonder if your hand is actually tingly or if you’re imagining things. You have a crazy idea in mind for what you wanna do, but you know if you act on it, it’ll change everything. Are you ready for change? Is she? Is that the right thing to do?

 

In the end, she lets go, and so do you.

 

“Goodnight,” you say, and go sit in the shower for approximately fifty minutes to think about your life and your choices.

 

Some uncle you’re gonna make one day.

 

==>

 

Although it kills you, you leave Jane to her own devices and go to Harley Industries in the morning. Jade is so chipper it hurts to look at her, all big buck-toothed smiling and bouncing and zapping objects into her hands rather than reach for them. Why did you come here again?

 

“Dirk!” she squeals, and actually hugs you. “Isn’t it a great day?”

 

A Harley high on Vantas is a dangerous thing.

 

“It’s a day,” you grunt. “What’s my required slave labor?”

 

“Oh,” she giggles, “I’m not actually sure yet. I was pent up here most of yesterday with restless energy so I organized everything!”

 

What? Bullcrap. She hasn’t organized a day in her life. You check her files. Not…your brand of organization, but neat. This is weird.

 

“So, what, did I come in for nothing?” you grump, and she giggles again.

 

“Probably! I mean, I dunno, I was just so—” She practically floats into the air and her grin gets bigger. “ _Happy!_ ”

 

You don’t want to know. You really don’t want to know.

 

“Uh…why?”

 

Crud.

 

“Let’s just call it a pumpkin cottage thing and leave it at that,” she giggles, and you throw your hands up. You know she lives in a cottage surrounded by a pumpkin patch, but as to its significance, you are purposely burning all thought and memory from your mind. You really don’t wanna know. You _really really_ don’t wanna know.

 

She has you take out her trash and bring her coffee (decaf, no way she needs more caffeine with the mood she’s in), and you endure her sunny smiles for all of two hours before you insist that if she doesn’t need you, you need to get back to Jane.

 

“Oh,” she says, though her voice is still cheerful as ever, “okay!”

 

Because this is a habit of hers, you pause a moment at the door, and she says nothing. You take one more step. Still nothing. You make it almost all the way to the stairs when she materializes in front of you. You almost plow into her and down the stairs.

 

“If you’re going to see Jane, tell her I miss her!” she chirps, and you frown at her.

 

“You couldn’t just text her that?” you ask.

 

“Nope!” she giggles. “Also, I had to ask—are you and Jane a Thing yet?”

 

A Thing? What is this, middle school?

 

“We’re friends. We’re roommates. We’re many Things, Jade, you’ll have to be specific,” you say. “And don’t ask, because frankly, it’s none of your business.” She droops a little. “It’s great you and Karkat are happy. Awesome. Go do your pumpkin cottage business to your heart’s content, and don’t tell me what that business is, I don’t wanna know. Be happy. Let me and Jane…work out me and Jane. Okay?”

 

She nods, looking serious for the first time today.

 

“Okay, Dirk.”

 

You nod and step around her.

 

“Just…be careful, okay? Lots of stuff changed for both of you over the past couple of years.” You look back at her, and she’s looking at you steadily. “Proceed with caution. All I’m saying.”

 

Aye aye, Captain Obvious.

 

(Though personally, you’re wondering if you’re exercising too much caution.)

 

==>

 

Jane is beaming when you get home.

 

“What?” you ask carefully.

 

“We have overlooked the big question, Mr. Strider,” she says. What is it with the dark-haired girls you know and being overly happy today? “Can you guess what that is?”

 

“Uh…” You fish around for an answer.

 

“The phone, Dirk,” she smiles. “The phone was sitting right there, out in the open for us to find!”

 

“How do we know she didn’t just have that phone sitting there in her closet?” you ask.

 

“Unlikely, for two reasons: one, the keys on the phone are a little shinier than normal. This indicates use. Two, the phone itself has dings and scratches consistent with six-plus months of being carried in a purse or pocket. Three, I had Roxy pull all the data off the phone and send it to me.” She says all of this very fast, bouncing her laptop on her knees. “And do you know what I discovered?”

 

“Enlighten me,” you say.

 

“Ms. Weller kept a detailed calendar on her phone,” Jane answers. “Times, where she was going to be, sometimes even where she was going to park. But the week of her vacation and those weeks subsequent, it’s blank.”

 

“Which tells us…what?”

 

Jane clicks a moment, then says, “The last thing she typed in was on the first day of her supposed vacation. 8:30 PM, The Big Top.” She sucks in a breath. “Oh.”

 

“Oh? What’s oh?”

 

Jane looks at you with big, sad eyes. “Dirk…I don’t think Vinnia Weller is alive anymore.”

 

You frown. “What?”

 

She turns her laptop around. You see very clearly why.

 

The Big Top is a very large, very imposing black tent, spattered with what you are going to think _very, very hard_ are multicolored paint splotches and accented with lots of dark purple. In the pictures you can see that the only trolls around are indigobloods, and the site as a whole is just an advertisement for the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs. You thought you’d had your fill of highbloods with Gamzee. The universe is an unkind god.

 

Oh, indeed.

 

“There’s always a chance, right?” you say, and Jane slowly shakes her head.

 

“I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for her now, Dirk,” she says sadly. “The law doesn’t reach that far when it comes to the Church. It’s hard to bring order to a system built on chaos.”

 

All of which is her way of telling you to shift priorities. So you do. As soon as she tells you which direction, though you have an idea.

 

“We’re following the Little lead now, aren’t we?” you ask.

 

“We’re following the Little lead,” she affirms. “Which…which means…” she sighs. “Okay, Dirk, I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me.”

 

Your gut prickles. “Okay.”

 

She looks you in the eyes, steadily. “What’s the history between you and Calvin Little?”

 

Oh, boy. Question of your life.

 

You look at her, earnest face and gentle eyes, soft mouth and round curves, every inch open and inviting and kind. If anyone in your life was to know the details…she would fit the bill of your preferred confidant.

 

And maybe it’s time for you to come clean.

 

You take her hand and lead her to your room, sit her at the foot of your bed, and produce the napkin and token. She notices the coin straightaway.

 

“He didn’t have that out when I went to visit his office,” she blurts. “It came out after.”

 

Well. That’s one mystery solved. You toss it to her and unrumple the napkin, reading the message again.

 

_Had a great time, babe. We could have a lot more. 555-8142. 4616 Caledfwych St. Room 413._

 

“I was nineteen when I met him,” you say, slowly, haltingly, because you’ve never told anyone this story, not even Dave. Dave was sixteen and drifting away from you. Or maybe you were drifting away from him. You never did stop to think about how having both of his big Bros leave him must have hit him hard.

 

“I was bumming around Derse City at that point when he came up behind me at a slot machine and pulled the lever with me,” you start again. “Won a pretty big jackpot. Kinda…kinda took off after that. I didn’t see it then, but I was arm candy to him. Parading me around his friends. Buying me stuff. I liked being the one who was admired, who was being chased. I liked not…not having to be the one _working_ so hard, you know?”

 

She nods, putting aside the coin and taking your hands in hers. You appreciate.

 

“It…it started with small things. He wanted to know where I was going. Who I was seeing. Eventually he kinda…closed me off. From everyone. From my friends. From my brother. He made himself the center of my universe.” You swallow hard. This is difficult, but with her thumbs rubbing against your skin, you think you can make it. “By the time I realized what was happening, I was in real deep and couldn’t see a way out.

 

“I tried just leaving. He found me, everywhere I went. At first he was all sweet and asking me not to go, and I stayed for a little while until it got bad again. Then the fights started.”

 

“How did you get away from him?” she asks. You realize your eyes have been leaking a little and wipe them.

 

“I got some help. Hid out at a shelter for a few months, then got a place of my own in Skaia City. I wasn’t going to let him scare me off.” You rub your eyes a little more earnestly. “There were a few more people after him, but I never let it get that far with them. Limited it down to one-night stands. He didn’t try to get in touch, and eventually I came back to Altville when it felt…y’know…safer.” You rub your arms. “I still…I still feel guilty, about how the thing with Cronus went, but I’m not sorry about that relationship. It was…good for me, while it lasted.”

 

You don’t mention how you threw yourself into it with the thought that maybe if you just _did_ it, it would be easier, because you’re still all sorts of confused about what your feelings are doing. You did love Cronus. You just hate that it turned into a black hole of emotion and dragged on for so long.

 

Jane is still stroking your hands, and when you look her in the face, she’s crying.

 

“I guess nineteen wasn’t good for any of us, was it?” she asks softly, and you shake your head. One of you with a dead father, another in a relationship with a manipulative maniac, another skipping the continent altogether to avoid a mobster, another dealing with her alcoholism alone and hiding the last friend she had. What a group.

 

You watch Jane’s face as she sniffs and mops up her tears, and once her face is dry she takes your hands again.

 

“When I was gone,” she says, and your throat clogs.

 

“You don’t have to tell me,” you manage to choke, and she shakes her head.

 

“I want to,” she says. You relent.

 

“The—the night Sollux and Roxy brought down the network,” she says, “I was at the tower. I was—I was a failsafe. In case they couldn’t do it.”

 

“How did you—Jade.” It clunks together well enough. You entertain thoughts of Jane grilling Jade for information about how you were doing and realize how stupid a train of thought that is. It would’ve been best to keep Jane as uninformed about you as possible. Keep her focused. You twinge with an old anger you don’t think will ever go away and refocus.

 

“When Sollux and Roxy were getting close, she sent me in as surveillance, but Calliope and I happened to both be there when everything blew up. We were prepared for that, but we weren’t prepared for…well… _him_.”

 

You have a sinking feeling you know where this story is going.

 

“He came tearing out of there with wires attached to his head and orange eyes,” she says, and her voice is hollow. “I’ve never been so afraid. And I wasn’t afraid of anything specific, that’s what made it so…it was a nameless fear. A fear of everything and a fear of nothing.” She shivers hard, breath catching hard in her throat, and you don’t know what to do for her but squeeze her hands and show her you’re still here.

 

“It didn’t affect Callie, I don’t know why. She started fighting him. Managed to loosen his hold enough where I was aware of myself, but I needed to—I needed to get _awake_.” One of her hands detaches and returns to that spot on her leg. “There was a fire going and hot metal everywhere. I grabbed a burning rod and pressed it to my leg.”

 

Oh, Jane.

 

“Once I was myself we ran him off and got out of there before the fire department arrived. But…but I still feel him sometimes. In my head. Still hear him—hear him whisper.” She heaves a very wet sob. You break inside.

 

You have so many reasons why that was the dumbest thing in the world for her to do. But likely she’s heard and seen it all, so you don’t question her. You just sorta…hold her. Some shifting is in order, but by the end you’re cradling her on your chest while your back leans on pillows, wondering how all this could’ve happened, why it did, when everything will just make sense again like it did in high school.

 

“You’re okay now,” you keep telling her, and you’re saying it as much to yourself as you are to her. “You’re okay.”

 

Eventually you both calm down. The room is lit with late afternoon shadows, and some of it slants across Jane’s skin as she moves around to lie more comfortably on you. You’ve…always liked her skin. It’s good skin. Smooth. Like chocolate mousse. Been forever since you’ve had her chocolate mousse, now that you think about it, but all thoughts of her baking are driven out of mind when she props herself up on your chest to study your face.

 

She’s not really looking at you to stare sappily into your eyes. She’s looking for the same reason you do—she’s looking for changes. For new lines, new freckles, old hairlines, old scars. You take a deeper breath than necessary when one of her hands gently lights on your cheek.

 

“What about us, Dirk?” she says softly. “Are _we_ gonna be okay?”

 

You slowly trail your hands from her hips up her sides and back down over her back, then back up to her arms. You turn your head a little and kiss her palm, her thumb pad, and watch the flush spread across her cheeks. For the first time…you wonder where else that flush goes.

 

You watch her face draw closer to yours and although your heart is hammering with a familiar tune that says “ _don’t don’t don’t she’ll hurt us_ ”, you are ninety-eight percent sure you want this. You let her come to you. Not forcing. Just letting it happen.

 

There is a loud knock at the door.

 

You and Jane freeze and stare at each other for a minute.

 

“Pretend we’re not home,” you whisper. She snorts a giggle.

 

“I know you idiots are home! Your car is still here!” a loud, familiar, totally unwelcome voice yells from the door.

 

Jane drops her head against your shoulder and you both groan.

 

==>

 

It’s not the first time you’ve had Karkat Vantas at your card table. It’s not the first time he’s sipped orange juice out of your third-favorite mug while Jane makes food. You don’t give your third-favorite mug to just anyone to drink your OJ out of, you know. You would say, after this long, Karkat Vantas is sort of your bro.

 

You have a brain full of irritation and a gut full of confusion that all say otherwise right now.

 

Your shades are on and your clothes are in place (not that they were terribly rumpled but you’re feeling hyper-aware of your…everything), but even so you hope Karkat senses your disapproval. You are staring him down and though your face is immovable you are a pillar of anger. And confusion. Have you mentioned you have no idea what’s going on? Everything sucks and you don’t understand.

 

However, you have enough wits about you to know a happy Vantas when you see one. He’s not floating all over and giggling, but he is actually…y’know… _smiling_. And _humming_. Oh, gog, why.

 

“What brings you by, Detective?” Jane says lightly, flipping over some grilled cheese.

 

“You know grub-sucking well why I’m here,” he says, and though his word choice is vulgar as ever his tone is backlit with the undertone of bliss. _Eurgh_.

 

“You’ll have to be specific,” Jane replies. “We’re friends. You could be over for a friendly chat. Or you’ve been attempting to get in touch with little success, as I’ve been away from my phone for a little while. There are a wide variety of reasons.”

 

Karkat breathes through his nose. “Sollux texted me,” he says. “He had a feeling he should hack Roxy’s computer last night, don’t ask me why, it’s either more of their ridiculous platonic flirting or his stupid premonitions. Guess what he found?”

 

Oh, goody. Your displeasure waxes deeper.

 

“A collection of cat photos and useless code?” Jane says. You guess there’s a reason why she’s doing the talking. She’s better at pushing his buttons, making him spell out just what he wants. If it were up to you, you’d be bodily tossing him from the apartment. You need to get yourself under control.

 

“No. Well, yes. But no,” Karkat frowns. She sets a plate of grilled cheese in front of him. “Thanks. What he found, as you well know, is the signal of a Crocker Corp phone with an active wetware wire.” He takes a bite, then swallows. “I wanna know what’s going on.”

 

You look at Jane, who is studying you and biting her lip.

 

“One sec,” you say, and walk into the kitchen.

 

“Bad news,” you whisper when you and she are hustled into a corner of the kitchen. “You heard what Little said.”

 

“I was concerned about Ms. Weller’s well-being more than anything Little could do. If she went to the Mirthfuls, I don’t know that there’s anything else we can do for her,” Jane murmurs back. “I didn’t want to do it with Karkat, but…” She chews her lip.

 

“You have a new plan,” you say slowly.

 

She nods. “And we’re going to need some help.”

 

“So, what, we ask him to go rogue?” you frown.

 

“Not rogue,” she shrugs. “We ask him for backup. He doesn’t have to _provide_ the backup.”

 

You frown at her. “He’s going to want to come. And if he comes—”

 

“I can hear you, you know,” Karkat says loudly. Curse his troll hearing. Jane looks at you. You sigh.

 

“I need you to trust me,” she says. You hesitate. Two years’ worth of broken trust comes whispering into your ears.

 

“Okay.”

 

She smiles brightly at you.

 

You have a stupid desire to touch her face.

 

Jane flips another grilled cheese and sets the table. You notice she doesn’t have a sandwich of her own and give up your second one. She doesn’t comment.

 

“I need to ask you a question first, Karkat,” Jane says. “First: if I let you in, are you willing to leave behind the badge for a little while?”

 

Karkat furrows his brow. “Leave behind—what are you—?”

 

“Meaning if our client, who may be our perpetrator, smells police involvement, things could get hairy,” Jane says crisply. “He knows you, from what I can deduce, so if he recognizes you, especially if you’re _acting_ like a cop, it’ll be dangerous for all of us.”

 

He stares at her, bites his lip, and tentatively nods.

 

“If lives are at risk,” he says, “I can do whatever you need me to do.”

 

“The lives at risk here are probably ours,” Jane says. “But I’m getting to that. Second, if I let you in, are you willing to listen to me and follow an order even if you disagree or don’t understand?”

 

He nods again.

 

“Third,” Jane says, very seriously, “you can’t tell your moirail what you’re up to.”

 

The reaction is immediate and severe. Whatever glow he’s been toting all day vanishes. “I’m not doing _anything_ if I can’t tell Gamzee. I’m keeping one secret from him and it kills me to do it. I’m not keeping this from him, too.”

 

“Think of it this way,” Jane replies. “If he knows where you are and what you’re doing, he will be a liability. There’s every chance of him getting hurt, or reliving old habits. Do you catch my drift?”

 

Karkat’s mouth twists, his face gains color, and all in all he looks like the very picture of an expectant mother of a rage snake.

 

“I am not agreeing to that until you tell me what is going _on_ here, Crocker,” Karkat growls. “Every detail, laid out, spelled out, and you and me on the same level. I need to know that this isn’t going to—going to end like last time. Okay?”

 

You chew the inside of your mouth.

 

“Okay,” Jane says after a long moment. She sighs, takes a bite of grilled cheese, and settles into her chair.

 

“I was contacted Sunday evening by a Calvin Little about a missing employee, Vinnia Weller. When I went to investigate, Mr. Little made it very clear that he didn’t want police interference, hence my first request.” Karkat nods. So far, he’s engaged. Good. You guess. “We scoped out Ms. Weller’s apartment and discovered a Crocker Corp phone, still active, in her closet, as well as signs that she’s been undergoing frequent chucklevoodooing.”

 

“How is that possible? I thought Sollux and Roxy—”

 

“We don’t know,” Jane cuts him off swiftly. “I had Roxy trace the signal as soon as the wire started transmitting harshwhimsies last night, and it’s transmitting from Mr. Little’s building. I also had Roxy pull all of Ms. Weller’s data, and the last event she entered in her calendar was a date at the Big Top.” Karkat swears violently. “And…in my experience…Kurloz Makara is the one operating the Crocker phone again.”

 

Karkat rubs his face.

 

“So you understand why I made that final request,” Jane hints, and he nods.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, he can’t—yeah. I’m on board.” He takes a deep breath. “How do you always manage to get yourself pulled into these situations, Jane?”

 

“Natural talent,” she smiles, though it’s devoid of any mirth. “I have a plan forming right now, but it requires stealth and cunning and a fair bit of luck.”

 

“What’s the idea?” you ask. You’re ready to get to it already.

 

“Someone needs to sneak into the Little & Little building,” Jane says. “I have a hunch the transmissions could be emitting from the basement, although there’s always a chance it’s somewhere else.”

 

“Basement,” you grunt. “No one ever goes down there except for custodial and it’s easy enough to just bypass it. I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever’s behind this just closed it off entirely.” You sigh. “At least, that’s how it was last time I was there. But I don’t think it’s changed much since then.”

 

“Since you were there,” Karkat says flatly.

 

“So someone—I’m thinking you, Dirk, and you, Karkat—needs to get to the basement and look for clues. Look for definitive proof that Kurloz Makara is the one behind it, look for any ties between him and Mr. Little or signs of foul play, that sort of thing.” You are forever grateful for Jane’s deflection, but there’s a final piece to her puzzle she isn’t telling you….

 

“And you?” you say.

 

“I’ll be up top, distracting our client,” she says, and there is a grim set to her jaw you don’t like the look of at all. More than that, though, the idea of her being _alone_ with him… “If we’re going to succeed, it’s imperative Mr. Little’s attention is nowhere near the basement. He’ll have it rigged somehow, and we can take out those alarms beforehand, but so long as his attention is not focused on the basement—”

 

“I’ll do it,” you say, and although your insides are quivering and your hands are getting sweaty, you are absolutely sure of your motion. She stops mid-sentence.

 

“What?”

 

“I’ll do it,” you repeat. “I’ll distract Little.”

 

Jane’s eyes get big and her mouth gets thin. “No. I am not going to ask you to do that. I’m not sending you there with him.”

 

“It’s gotta be me,” you protest. “Neither of you can _distract_ him half so well as I can, and you’ll be quicker than I am at picking up clues.”

 

She stands, fists planted on the table. “I want you in the basement,” she says tightly. “You’re not getting close to him again. Never again. I won’t let you.”

 

You stand too, though more languidly. “I’m prepared for this,” you say. Lie. A little. “You think I want _you_ near him any more than you want me near him? If you send me in, you have an advantage. I know him. I know—” You swallow hard. “I know how to keep him…busy. And if you’re collecting data, you’ll be quick and you’ll be thorough. It won’t be for long.”

 

Karkat stares between you and Jane with his mouth slightly open, but you don’t actually care right now. Your attention is on the woman across the table from you.

 

“If you go in there,” she says, “how do I know you’ll come back out?”

 

You take off your shades and toss them on the table and stare at her, right into her eyes.

 

“I need you,” you say, and your voice is strangled and all you see is blue, “to trust me.”

 

She bites her lip. She blinks hard. She takes a deep breath. You don’t break eye contact.

 

“Okay.”

 

==>

 

In order to infiltrate a building where you, Jane, and Karkat are all more or less known, you decide to send in an unknown to scope out the security on the basement. The elevator you know won’t go down that far without a key, an old copy of which you happen to have for…reasons. You give it to Roxy, warn her that if it doesn’t work to get out as soon as she can, and wait outside in your Scion gritting your teeth and listening to Karkat do the same. Jane is calm and collected, watching the reflection of Little & Little in the windows of the building across the street.

 

Roxy is level-headed, and surprisingly full of foresight—she’s dressed as a potential client and carrying a bag with the logo for the janitorial company working under Little & Little. Where she got it, you don’t know. You’re just the driver and possibly the tech guy. And also the sultry seductress, but you’re not thinking about that part yet.

 

She’s inside the building for fifteen minutes and comes out with a big grin on her face.

 

“This is so cool,” she giggles as soon as the door is shut and you’re speeding away. “Do you guys get to do this all the time?”

 

“No,” you grunt. “What did you find?”

 

“The key still works,” Roxy says brightly, “but the inner sanctum of the basement is guarded by a keypad and deadbolt. I couldn’t figure out much else for ya, sorry.”

 

“You found out plenty,” Jane says soothingly. “Did anyone stop you on the way?”

 

“Guard guy,” she shrugs. “I took care of it.”

 

You give a moment to consider all the ways Roxy could have “taken care” of it and suppress the urge to laugh.

 

You take Roxy home. She protests, but you are firm. No one else is going to get hurt here other than people who are fully prepared, and although you love Roxy, she isn’t prepared. She goes home pouting, but safe, and that’s what you care about. Jane waits until she enters her apartment and exhales a sigh.

 

“Alright, then,” Jane says, “this is the rest of what we’re going to do…”

 

As she explains over Chinese, the plan has two parts. Part one, obviously, is you, up in that office, using what your Bro may or may not have given you and keeping the target’s eyes on you and not whatever surveillance systems he may have in place. Part two is a little trickier, but still simple: Jane and Karkat, dressed as janitors and smuggling in a few tools, will bypass the keypad, get through the door, and do enough snooping to uncover a solid connection between Little & Little and the Big Top. You’re leaving the details up to her, because as you’ve been finding out, she’s as adept at manipulating security systems as you or Roxy.

 

You move in two days.

 

==>

 

Jane sneaks into your room the night before this is all going down. You’re awake, staring at the ceiling. She sits down on the side of your bed and knots her fingers firmly in her lap. You glance at her, quirk a little grin, and go back to staring.

 

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

 

“Peachy,” you reply. “I’ve got the skills. I know the streets. Ain’t no power in the ‘verse that can stop me. I am a-ok. I am the Sundance Kid.”

 

She looks at you. You look back at her.

 

“There’s an eighty-percent chance of success tomorrow,” you say, “the other twenty percent being allowance for injury, a change in the keys, equipment failure, and overzealousness on my part.”

 

“Overzealousness?”

 

“Yeah,” you say. Your voice sounds too hearty in your ears. “Might end up bashing his head into the desk a few times, who knows? Or, hey, maybe I’ll just fail to please, it happened often enough. Sixty percent chance of customer satisfaction, fifteen percent going too far, fifteen percent not going far enough—”

 

She puts a couple of fingers over your fast-running mouth.

 

“Dirk,” she murmurs, “please. Don’t obfuscate. Don’t quote percentages at me. Look at me and tell me…tell me if you are really alright with this. I don’t want to send you in there if there’s even the smallest possibility of him dragging you back down. I don’t want that.”

 

Her fingers transfer to your cheek, her thumb smoothing over your cheekbone, and you squeeze your eyes shut tight.

 

“Seventy-seven percent chance of coming back,” you mumble. “Ten percent chance of chickening out. Eleven percent chance of attempted murder.” You open your eyes again and hold her hand to your face. “Two percent chance of falling all over again.”

 

She kneels down on the floor and presses her forehead to yours.

 

“Don’t call it falling,” she says softly. “Call it entrapment, or something equally distasteful. Don’t say you’d ever fall for him again. Please don’t.”

 

You put your hand in her hair, scrunching through her curls, her breath peppermint-cool against your cheek.

 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” you say. “But no matter how much I crunch the numbers, there’s always a small chance that I could go back to him. There’s a nineteen-year-old in me tired of fighting.”

 

“You’re not nineteen anymore,” she says, and her voice is feather-soft. “You’re older. Wiser. You’re stronger now than you were back then, and you were so strong, Dirk. You can do it, I know you can.”

 

You look at her, too close to see her whole face, and your heart twists.

 

You’re not strong enough for her not to hurt you. You’re not strong enough to guard yourself against her.

 

But you can be strong enough to protect her.

 

She kisses your forehead, and slides away.

 

You grab her wrist.

 

“Don’t,” you say, and pull, gently. She could break away if she wants do. “Don’t. Stay.”

 

She resists for all of four seconds, then slips under your blanket and into your arms. You clutch her against you and let yourself feel—the new fit of her body against yours, her breath on your neck, her hair tickling your face. You listen to her breathe, listen to your heartbeat in your ears. You inhale that familiar sweet vanilla smell of her.

 

You re-crunch your own numbers.

 

Percentage of success: 77%.

 

Percentage of extenuating circumstances: 3%.

 

Percentage of attempted murder: 20%.

 

Percentage of returning groveling back to Cal’s feet: 0%.

 

You kiss the top of Jane’s head and you sleep deeper than you have in years.

 

==>

 

Jane wakes you up the next morning by pushing you out of bed. Somehow or another you ended up close to the edge, and like a jerk she takes advantage. Rude. You start awake and flail a little, but it’s her laugh that really wakes you up.

 

“Foul play, Crocker?” you say, rubbing your head. “Two can play at that game.”

 

It is dangerous to engage in a wrestling match with Jane, particularly when she knows everywhere you’re ticklish, but figure it’s a sound victory when you pin her arms at the wrists and then sit on her legs. She’s laughing breathlessly, and so are you, and it’s been so long since either of you laughed like that, especially around each other.

 

“I win,” you manage to giggle.

 

“Do you?” Jane chuckles back, and her lower body gives a twist that dislodges you. Her legs close around your torso and her knees dig into your ribs. Which is painful. You let go of her arms to deal with her legs, and you’re not quite sure how it happens (but maintain it is through cheating), but she ends up sitting on your stomach, your hands clamped between her knees. You take a short break to get the rest of the giggles out before proceeding.

 

Which you do. By gaining the upper hand and rolling over, sending her tilting towards the mattress, and then jumping her. She is securely held down by your greater weight and stature. You are the winner. It is you.

 

Her cheeks are flushed with laughing and you can’t seem to get a good solid breath pulled in, and you take a moment to reflect on how you missed this. There you and Jane are, practically on the edge of your thirties, and goofing off like teenagers. Being silly. Hearing her amazing laugh and forgetting, forcefully, what you’re going to have to do in a few hours.

 

You revel in your victory for a few sweet moments, then get up. She sits up, patting at her hair, and you pause a moment too long in watching her. She’s sitting in your bed, surrounded by your blankets, still in her pajamas, mussed up from head to toe, and you’re not embarrassed. It all just feels…natural.

 

_Did she? Do you?_

 

You are not sure how to verbalize or quantify the idea that you want to see her like this more often.

 

“Big day ahead,” Jane says, and you recalibrate.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ll go make breakfast,” she says, and you watch her walk away before registering that she’s stolen one of your t-shirts for PJs again.

 

And of all things, _that_ is what makes you middle-school blush.

 

She looks good in it.

 

==>

 

Other than the napkin and the token, you have one other artifact left over from your days as Little’s arm candy, and it’s a shirt, a button-up orange number with black stripes. Garish. Horribly ugly. Insanely expensive. Also too small. But you pull it on over one of your usual black tops and hope your increased muscle mass (and a little tiny bitty bit of pudge _are you eating too much cake is that it_ ) doesn’t damage the shirt too much. You haven’t worn it in years, ostensibly; after getting out of town you only wore it to interviews you wanted to throw, not because of the way it makes you look like a tacky tiger, but for the way you’re sure bad juju clings to it. Could it be that by wearing this you are throwing the mission? Possible. But you don’t really believe in luck anyway and wearing the shirt will send a message you want heard.

 

You go in on your own first, feeling the phantoms of Jane’s arms around your ribs, and your shades are firmly in place.  You are dressed up with somewhere to go and you turn on the charm. You might not be the best at making conversation with strangers, but at being a sexy beast when your friends are counting on you? Your heart’s all in this. Bring it on.

 

You remember your way to the office, and his door is open, so when he sees you coming he ends his phone call, laces his fingers, and _grins_. You walk in, your insides calm wrapped around a maelstrom, and kick the door closed.

 

“Dirk,” Little beams, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

“Yeah,” you say, crossing around the desk, “tough.”

 

He’s spun out his chair a little to meet you, and as you yank him upright and ferociously press your mouth on his, your eyes are open, scanning your environment, looking for any surveillance he might have on— _ah_. There it is, a little screen disguised as a digital picture frame that shows what you assume is the interior of the basement, because there’s a set of mechanisms in place that look like they could hook up to a highblood and transfer his psychic whosiwhatsis _bad idea bad idea bad idea_.

 

You’re bigger and you’re tougher than you were ten years or so ago, but Cal Little still knows you—one of his hands is pressing a certain _spot_ on the back of your neck, hard. You remember this one. Failsafe in case you were getting too aggressive. You’re kinda sensitive back there. Once upon a time, it would have you backing down until you were a little more submissive. Now? You have a mission.

 

You let go of his jacket, and clear half of his desk (the half where the frame lies, whoops, clumsy you); then, you grab him by the front again, slam him down, and carry on. He laughs.

 

“Getting a little rough there, kid,” he says between you nipping down his jaw. You note with satisfaction that the frame has been knocked face-down. You then feel his fingers on your shades and grab his wrist, jerking it away. How were you ever scared of him? You could break him over your knee. In fact, you might.

 

“Rough?” you pant. “This isn’t rough. This is _tender_ compared to what I’m gonna do to you.”

 

“I’m intrigued,” he says, and then…he _giggles_. “But playtime’s over, Dirk.”

 

He grabs you around the throat and you find he’s _strong_. You’re pushed back, back off of him, back into his chair, and he slides onto your lap like old times, and then pushes a button on the side of the chair. You’re starting to choke a little as a screen comes down from the ceiling, and with a jolt of horror you see Jane and Karkat, in their stolen janitor uniforms, sneaking through the basement.

 

“You’re going to watch this,” he murmurs into your ear, and when you turn your head to glare at him he shifts his hand up under your jaw and jerks your head back around. “ _Watch_.”

 

You clench your jaw and swallow hard, watching. At first, it seems like nothing is happening, but then you see them and _oh man_.

 

You thought you knew what hell was. You thought hell was a grave with flowers by it and a cracked glass pane, an empty cupcake tin and a cold bed. You thought hell was vast and barren. But you see now that hell is slimy and slippery and slides down the throat to pool in your stomach like horror. Hell is watching no less than four indigo-blooded trolls, painted and pierced, cage your Jane in like cattle. Hell is watching her crumple and grab her head while Karkat snarls.

 

Hell is watching and being unable to lift a finger.

 

“Oh, Dirk,” Little purrs in your ear, “it was so _cute_ watching you try so hard. Did you really think I would hire Jane Crocker and not know what she’s capable of? Did you think I wouldn’t know you would come? Does it make you sick, knowing this was always the destined outcome?”

 

Your throat bobs and your hands clench, but with his uncut fingernails so close to your jugular you’d rather play it safe. Also you are finding it hard to feel your body while you watch Karkat take a swing with a mop at a highblood who wanders too close and watch him get backhanded so hard he hits a pipe and doesn’t move.

 

The indigobloods close in, but don’t lay paw on her. You see why, because you clearly see Jane _scream_ , her whole body writhing, twisting, and your throat curdles up on itself and you should be there, you should be there, you should _be there_ —

 

The camera suddenly pops and fizzles out.

 

Little’s hand curves around your jaw. His nails cut into your flesh.

 

You start laughing.

 

It’s all just so… _funny_.

 

“What’s happening?” he says, and his voice goes up an octave. You grab the wrist connected to the hand that is attempting to choke you, and tear it away. Then you bend his arm behind his back.

 

“I told you. I’m playing rough today.”

 

And then you slam his head against his desk, and find the once is good enough for you. His skull gives a very satisfying _crack_ , and he crumples. You check his pulse. Still alive. For now. You strip off that horrible shirt, tie his hands behind his back with it, and tear like a crazed troll for the basement.

 

You are met by a groggy-looking Karkat, supported by— _oh you have got to be kidding me._

 

“Jade?” you splutter. “But—how—”

 

“No time,” she says. “Jane’s already in the car. Take him. I have some business to take care of.” And she cracks her knuckles. You take her point and hightail it up to the car.

 

“Whazzappenin?” Karkat mumbles. You stuff him in the back seat and start driving. Jade will catch up when she’s done and—there she is, situating Karkat’s groaning head in her lap.

 

“To the hospital, please,” she says calmly. “I think he has a concussion.”

 

A-ok. To the hospital you go. Though one look at Jane and you know you’ll be dropping Jade and Karkat off.

 

She’s curled in a tight ball, and if you listen very carefully you can hear miniscule sobs, like she’s biting her lips and cheeks hard to try to stop making noise. You can’t quite soothe her right now. But you can break a few traffic laws on the way to the hospital so you and Jane can sort her out.

 

However, Jade has other plans.

 

“Hang tight until I get him looked at,” she says sharply. “He’ll know best what to do about her right now.”

 

“Well, that’s great, but he looks like he’s going to be out for a while,” you snip at her. “She needs help _now_.”

 

“Gamzee,” Karkat mumbles.

 

“I’m going to call him as soon as you’re at the hospital, okay?” Jade soothes.

 

“No,” he grunts, “ _Gamzee_. He’s…panleak…but c’n help. C’n help Jane.”

 

It would be a horrific idea to approach the juggalo, particularly with Jane, particularly when his moirail is in the hospital and it’s in all technicality yours and Jane’s fault.

 

“Dirk,” Jade says, “go straight to Karkat’s hive.”

 

“What about the hospital?”

 

“I’ll teleport us there, okay? Jane needs help more than Karkat does right now.”

 

“No don’t,” Karkat mumbles. “’m fine.”

 

“You have a concussion and you are going to a doctor rather than just have your moirail bandage your bleeding,” Jade says sweetly. “Don’t fall asleep on me, grubmunch, you’re going to need to talk Gamzee down and into helping Jane.”

 

With coaxing and insults, by the time you reach the hive Karkat is sitting up, at least, and his speech isn’t quite so bleary. You let Jade handle Karkat. You open Jane’s door, but don’t touch her.

 

“Jane?” you say quietly. “Hey. Jane. Can you walk?”

 

She curls up tighter. You notice a little trickle of blood from where she’s digging her nails into her hands.

 

“You might have to carry her,” Jade pants, stumbling a little under Karkat’s weight. You chew your lip.

 

“I’m gonna pick you up now,” you say, and she doesn’t respond. You squeeze your arm under her legs, maneuver her a little, and carry her, more or less still in a ball, into the hive.

 

Gamzee is in hysterics, jabbering high-speed clownspeak at Jade, who tolerates it for all of two seconds before closing her hand over his mouth (bad idea, check the fangs).

 

“He’ll be fine,” she says. “Karkat?”

 

“Hey, Gamzee,” he says, and his voice is loopy, and you would wait for them to get all the pale nothings out of the way but clear your throat loudly. Gamzee looks at you, then at Jane, and scowls.

 

“Gamzee,” Karkat says, “I needja to help ‘er. ‘Kay?”

 

“What does my know-it-all sister need from humble ole me?” Gamzee says, a hint of a slither in his voice. You hold Jane a little tighter to you. “What assistance need be required of a pan-dead individual like myself to the high and mighty—”

 

“She was attacked by four mirthfuls,” you snap. “I don’t know what you can do, but if you can do anything, now would be the time to do it.” You carry her to the couch and arrange her in a corner, touching her hair and letting your anger make way for fear. “Please.”

 

Gamzee looks at you, then at Karkat, who nods, and makes his way around the couch.

 

“Four, y’say?” he mumbles, and reaches out his hand to touch Jane’s temple. At this she moves, her hand snatching out to knock him away, and he glares at her. Karkat clears his throat. Gamzee slumps.

 

“If a sis would just let a bro work here,” he grumbles, and tries again. This time Jane lets him touch her. Gamzee hisses.

 

“Unholy fear-seeds been sown in this sister’s pan,” he growls. “And not a one of ‘em mine.”

 

“Keep your flirting to yourself. She’s not interested,” you say harshly. “Can you help her?”

 

“Sure as sure,” Gamzee nods. “Might hurt awful bad. Gotta ingest these small-fry psychic barbs into my own bad self and then pull out. Won’t be easy for her.”

 

You tense, then relax when you look at Karkat, who nods.

 

“Do it.”

 

Gamzee secures his grip, and for a moment there is nothing but tense silence. Then Jane keens, arching her back, and you grab her to make sure she doesn’t shake off Gamzee or hurt herself. She struggles, and she screams, and she gibbers things that you don’t understand and don’t want to. She calls for her dad and John a lot. Once for you.

 

“I’m here, Jane,” you murmur at her. “I’m here, I swear I’m here.”

 

Gamzee himself isn’t quiet, honking now and then and snarling, but after a grueling ten minutes, he lets go and sits back. Jane has gone quiet, eerily silent, and holds you hard.

 

“Got ‘em,” Gamzee says, and his voice is rougher, more exhausted. Karkat, with Jade’s support, totters around and hugs Gamzee.

 

You touch Jane’s hair. “Jane? You okay?”

 

She nods, slowly. Her hands don’t unclench from your shirt.

 

“Take her home,” Jade says. “I’m taking Karkat to the hospital.”

 

“I’mma come, too,” Gamzee says, and Jade nods.

 

You pick Jane up again and walk out.

 

“Thanks,” you say as you pass the juggalo, and he shrugs.

 

You get Jane home and wrap her up in a blanket, sitting her in front of one of her favorite movies and getting her a hot lemon water with cinnamon and honey. She gives you a thin smile.

 

After the movie is done and she looks much more relaxed (though still exhausted), she leans against you and sighs.

 

“On our list of failed plans,” she says softly, “I think this tops it.”

 

You kiss the side of her head. “Yeah.”

 

“He knew the whole time,” Jane says, and sighs raggedly. “And I sent you in there anyway.”

 

“You didn’t know,” you say. “Neither of us knew he’d be ready for us.”

 

“That’s no excuse,” she says blankly. “I should’ve known. I should’ve planned better. I should’ve.”

 

“You’re not a god, Jane,” you reply. “You can’t know everything. I can’t know everything. We did the best we could with the variables we knew about. Our opponent…was just a little smarter.”

 

You hate admitting that. You hate that you went in there and it was all for nothing.

 

“I found something,” Jane says, so quietly you almost don’t hear her. “Dirk, I found something.”

 

She shifts away from you and takes her phone out of her pocket. She’s still in the jumpsuit. She clicks through, then shows you a blurry picture of the transmitting machine you saw in the picture frame. You were facing it from the side, a chair with a headpiece in front of a series of screens. This picture is head-on—and it has the screens set to a lovely screensaver of a purple big-nosed smiley face bouncing around a black field.

 

“Proof enough?” you ask, and she nods and smiles.

 

“Plenty.”

 

You want to ask her about how her brain’s doing. You want to tell her about your time with Little and how… _small_ …you felt. You want to open up and pour your soul on her, the way you used to.

 

_So why don’t you?_

_Did she? Do you?_

 

“I left Little tied up and unconscious in his office,” you say instead, and Jane snorts through a giggle.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.” You grin at her, then feel it fade. “He. Uh. Had a screen of the basement. Made me watch. Watch you.”

 

Jane touches your face.

 

“I thought it was bad,” you say quietly, “when you died. I thought that was the worst pain, there’s no way anything can ever compare. I didn’t realize…just how very wrong I was.”

 

She runs her fingertips over your mouth. “Lips are swollen a little.”

 

“I was being a bit aggressive,” you admit, and she smiles a little. “Felt good. Not to kiss him, but to be…fierce, with him. To show him he’s not in control of me anymore.” You shift. “He had me for a moment, but as soon as the camera feed in the office cut off, it’s like—it’s like he lost his grip. Cut the puppet strings.”

 

She nods slowly. “I’m glad.”

 

You breathe deeply for a few minutes.

 

“What’s our next move?”

 

She shrugs. “Gotta get in the Big Top somehow. Make absolutely sure Vinnia Weller isn’t alive, and if she isn’t, bring down Kurloz Makara.”

 

“How?”

 

“I would like to bounce an idea off of Karkat first,” she says. “As soon as he’s capable of holding a conversation again.”

 

Oh, yeah. He got dinged really hard in the head. You sigh.

 

“Okay.”

 

You put in another movie and settle back onto the couch.

 

==>

 

“We can’t really use this as evidence, Crocker,” Karkat says bad-temperedly as Jane scoops bacon onto his plate. He’s over again, eating your food, but this time he’s brought Jade, who is surveying the ongoing conversation with none of her usual smile and chatter. Jane is serving the bacon and eggs. You are making the waffles.

 

“Why not?”

 

“You know very well why not!” he snaps. “You know better than I do why we can’t use your picture as definitive evidence to order a search warrant for the Big Top!”

 

“It all seems rather strange, though, don’t you think?” Jane counters. “Vinnia Weller goes missing after allegedly taking a trip to the Mirthful Church. We know she was undergoing chucklevoodoo manipulation via a single live CrockerCorp PalmHusk. The transmission was coming from the Little & Little building, a scant few blocks away. We go to investigate—”

 

“We _broke in_ ,” Karkat fumes.

 

“No use crying over cut deadbolts, Detective, we broke in to get a lead. We have a lead. Whether or not we pursue this with the weight of the law on our side is up to you, but I’m prepared to do it either way.” She stands across the card table from Karkat. It’s looking a little crowded these days. “Honestly, Karkat, what did you think I meant when I told you to be prepared to leave your badge behind?”

 

She’s kind of talking in circles today. You’re not sure if she’s doing it to deliberately irritate Karkat or if she’s still Not Quite Right after Friday’s escapades, but the sooner you can shove waffles in people’s mouths the better.

 

“When we went to Little & Little,” she continues, “we were attacked by four indigobloods obviously belonging to the Mirthful Church. I don’t know about you, but that’s all the proof I need to get in there and wreak some havoc.”

 

“And how do you plan on doing that?” Karkat snaps. “You have some pretty solid connections established, but the guy you’re after is practically their pope or whatever. The whole Big Top is its own unincorporated little community. It governs itself, it takes care of its own. I’m not even sure if my jurisdiction extends that far. You’re gonna go waltzing into his territory, and you’re gonna get yourself killed!”

 

“Well, what do you suggest?” Jane fires back. “Let him keep hurting and exploiting people until he dies, whenever that is? To keep letting the whole Church get away with routine murder?”

 

“You’ve felt their chucklevoodoos,” Karkat snarls. “You know what they do to a person’s brain. Psychics are always tricky, but something like that? Something that messes with your pan and turns you inside out? You can’t govern that! You can’t guard against that! The only thing that made you functional after you went toe-to-toe with four low-grade bozos is the interference of _my moirail!_ ”

 

“I’m aware,” Jane says through gritted teeth. “I am… _grateful_. But the issue here is that if we don’t bring Kurloz Makara to justice, no one will. We’re so close and I can _taste_ it.”

 

You slam down a plate piled with waffles. “We can pick this up later. Breakfast time.”

 

“But—”

 

“Sssshhhh,” you press a finger to Jane’s mouth. “Only waffles now.”

 

And, for a good ten minutes, the table is silent except for chewing and scraping.

 

“These are great, Dirk,” Jade chirps, grinning.

 

“Thanks. Jane’s recipe,” you shrug.

 

“Is there any way to psychically render him incapable?” Jane asks suddenly. You glare at her. She shows you her empty plate. You slap another waffle down.

 

“Not unless we know of a seadweller with a psychic ability,” Karkat shrugs. “The hemocaste sucked, but the hemo _spectrum_ is a real thing. The cooler the blood, the more powerful the psychic ability. I mean, there are obvious differences, because a fuchsiablood can’t really guard against a burgundyblood’s telekinesis, but when it comes to stuff like mind control and probing, blood matters.”

 

“And what does a mutantblood add to the mix?” Jane says, tone neutral.

 

“Don’t come at me like that, it won’t work,” he grimaces. “The most I can do is shake off a psychic influence, but it takes a little bit of concentration. The more powerful the press, the harder it is to find myself and break free.”

 

“I take it you have experience in that area,” Jane says.

 

“You know that I do.”

 

“So overpowering him and subduing him won’t work,” Jane muses, and starts eating her waffle.

 

“Could we get Gamzee to overpower him?” you ask, and Karkat shakes his head.

 

“Not that I don’t think he could, but he’s nowhere near strong enough,” he frowns. “If he had a little more practice and control, maybe. And that’s a big Maybe, because shutting up his harshwhimsy is only part one. The guy is ancient and huge and strong on top of that.”

 

“Could we call Callie?” Jade asks. “As I recall, she did a marvelous job of fighting the Grand Highblood at the CrockerCorp tower.”

 

“There’s a thought,” Jane says. She digs her phone out of her pocket, taps for a moment, then holds her phone up to her ear. She repeats the process three more times, on the fourth leaves a message, and sets her phone down, looking discouraged.

 

“Must be busy dealing with something else,” you say, tone flat.

 

“Might be a bad time,” Jade says hopefully. “Let’s give her a little while.”

 

“It’s Calliope. If she wanted to get in touch with us, she would,” you snap. Alright, maybe you’re harboring some latent mistrust of your old friend. Well, she has been Not Dead and then avoiding you and then helped Jane lie to you and…well…alright, you do adore Callie as a person, but as a friend? Not really helping her case with you.

 

“Then give me a little time,” Jane counters. “I’ll think of something. We have all the right pieces in front of us, I just need to figure out a way to make them click together. Alright?”

 

Karkat huffs, but shoves another forkful of waffle in his mouth rather than arguing.

 

You wanna nail this guy too, but the memory of her curled up in a ball in your arms is still a little too fresh and you just want to pick her up and carry her away. Away from Altville, away from her job, away from everything. But she would resent you for it. And she’d be right to.

 

You know if anyone can figure this out, she can. But it doesn’t mean you think she should be the one who has to.

 

Jade helps with the dishes and her and Karkat leave with the admonition to keep them updated. You look at the door for a few minutes.

 

“How did she know to come get us, back at Little & Little?”

 

“I’m chipped,” Jane replies. “When I was undercover they needed to know where I was and what I was doing. So I activated the mayday protocol on the chip before I blacked out.”

 

“What, so, she’s gonna know where you are forever?” you frown.

 

“It’s just under the skin.” She taps her forearm. “I can dig it out whenever I want.”

 

“Or you could let Jade take it out,” you reply. She grins and shrugs.

 

“It could come in handy one day.”

 

“It already did,” you say, and she nods.

 

“Precisely my point.”

 

You fiddle with your thumbs. The silence drags, but not oppressively.

 

In fact, it drags on for most of the day. It’s another one of those comfortable Sunday afternoons that bleed pleasantly into evening. Jane bakes, this time a very simple peanut butter cookie recipe, but no less delicious for it. Sometime around ten you decide to put another movie in, and are just having the mental argument on whether or not to casually slide your arm around her shoulders when there is a frantic banging on the door that makes you jump out of your skin.

 

“What in the world…?” Jane mutters, and goes to the door. You follow after her. The banging starts up again, and you grab the nearest blunt instrument—a barstool, as it happens—and press yourself to the side of the door, stool raised, ready to bring it down on whatever is about to come through the door. Jane looks at you, nods once, and opens it.

 

It’s a troll, a troll on her knees, covered in dark red blood and sporting a vast collection of lacerations, from horntip to toe. Jane shrieks. You jump.

 

“Help me,” the troll croaks, and slumps to the ground.

 

==>

 

To put it professionally, you freak the mess out.

 

“We need to get her to a hospital,” you say, breathing hard through your nose, and Jane nods.

 

“Help me get her up,” she says, and you oblige, sliding your arms under the troll’s and heaving her upright. She is surprisingly solid for a slight woman. Jane grabs her legs.

 

“To the car,” she grunts, and as quickly as you can the two of you heave her downstairs and into your Scion. The drive to the hospital seems to go by agonizingly slow as Jane sits in the backseat with the troll, one hand on the side of her neck, the other holding the troll’s hand.

 

It causes something of a stir when you burst into the ER carrying an unconscious and bloody troll between the two of you.

 

And it gets awkward when you’re handed the paperwork and have to tell the nurses you have no idea who she is.

 

Well, you have an idea, but you’re not exactly about to spread that around.

 

“Can we wait here and see if she’s gonna pull through?” Jane asks anxiously.

 

“Of course,” the nurse holding the paperwork smiles. “She looks to be in a bad way, but if she stabilizes, I’m sure she’ll want to thank the people who saved her life.”

 

Jane smiles and thanks her, and the two of you sink into chairs to wait.

 

“Weller?” you say softly, and Jane nods.

 

“I couldn’t recognize her face under the bleeding, but her horns look the same. If it isn’t her I will be very surprised.”

 

You chew your thumbnail. “I thought you said it was a guarantee she was dead.”

 

“I thought it was,” she murmurs. “I’ve never heard of any troll lower than maybe blue who walks into the Big Top and walks back out in one piece. I’m sure there are some, but they may not survive for very long afterwards to tell their stories.” She steeples her hands in front of her mouth. “I’m hoping, if this is Vinnia Weller, that she can provide us with answers.”

 

You are in the waiting room until well after two AM. You are dead asleep when Jane elbows you awake and you see the nurse coming towards you.

 

“She’s sleeping,” the nurse says. “We sewed up the worst of her cuts and stopped a lot of internal bleeding, but it was the blood transfusion that took so much time, I’m sorry.”

 

“Blood transfusion?” you mumble.

 

“They would have to find a blood bag that was close in hue and also the same type, which can take a while even in the most organized of blood banks,” Jane murmurs back. “When can we see her?”

 

“Like I said, she’s asleep, and she should stay that way for a while,” the nurse says pointedly. “You can stay here if you want, but I would advise going home and coming back in the afternoon.”

 

“Can you call me with any developments?” Jane asks, and talks with the nurse about contact information while you attempt to wake up more. Your nerves are shot.

 

Jane’s hands tug on your arm. “Come on, Dirk. Let’s go home.”

 

You let her drive because she seems more steady than you are. You wonder if she slept at all.

 

She noses under your arm as you get out, and although you don’t really need the support you let her. One of her hands is rubbing a soothing tempo across your back.

 

“We’re ‘bout to do somethin’ dumb,” you yawn, “aren’t we?”

 

“Possibly,” Jane replies, voice quiet and pensive. “We’re going to be helping people, though.”

 

“’s it worth it?” you mumble. You stand on your own while she opens up the apartment. Need to clean up the bloodstains tomorrow.

 

“Of course it’s worth it, Dirk, why wouldn’t it be?” she says softly, and leads you to her room. You’re not really paying attention right now. It occurs to you that both you and Jane are also covered in stiff dried blood. Gross.

 

“Dunno. Not sure if I’d call it a victory if neither of us make it out,” you shrug. You are only vaguely aware of her closing the door behind you.

 

“If you make it, then I’d consider it a win,” she says softly. “Put your arms up.”

 

You obey. She shimmies your gross shirt off of you, balls it up, and scrubs at the dried blood on your torso. She throws it at her laundry basket, then uses her hands, skimming them over your skin. You’re a little more awake now.

 

“If you don’t,” you reply, and hook your fingers under her shirt, “I consider that leave to do something very, very stupid. Arms.”

 

Her cheeks heat, but she lifts her arms, and you pull her shirt off. Most of the excess blood was soaked up by her cami, which you also pull off. She turns around to grab a shirt. You watch the bones and muscles in her back work for the brief moment her skin is exposed. Her bra could probably use a wash, too, which she apparently notices, because she, with her back still turned to you, pulls that off from under her shirt. You swallow and don’t know why.

 

She throws an oversized pair of shorts at you, and a smaller pair for herself, and with dignity you both pull off your jeans and slide into your respective shorts. You watch the dim light play off the shiny burn scar on her leg and shiver.

 

“Well, then,” she says softly, “I guess we’ll have to promise to both make it out alive, because if something happens to you, I don’t know that I’m going to last long.”

 

Your mouth tightens.

 

“Because I am also going to do something stupid,” she clarifies, and steps closer to you, sliding your shades off your face. “And even with you with me, there’s a small chance of survival.”

 

She folds your shades and reaches around you to place them on her bedside table. You reach out and run your hand up her arm and to her shoulder, up her neck and to her cheek.

 

“What if we let it go?” you say quietly. “What if we don’t do stupid things and…” And you’re not sure what else, because your words are getting stuck together.

 

She holds your wrist. “You know I can’t do that.”

 

“We could—we could make a life, you and me,” you say. “We could try.”

 

She smiles, and it’s a sad smile.

 

“Not until this is done.”

 

“And when this is done,” you say, your voice blank, “what about the case after that? And the case after that?”

 

She looks up at you, and sighs again.

 

“I can’t say for certain,” she murmurs. “I want to help people. This is how I help them. This is my life now.”

 

You reach up with your other hand and cup her face. “What did you want from life, before your dad was killed?”

 

Her eyes get a little wide, then shade downwards under her lashes. She mumbles, and you hear “silly” somewhere in there.

 

You tilt her face upwards.

 

“I wanted to make robots,” you say simply. “I wanted to teach a swordfighting class one day. I wanted to market smuppets to a wider audience. I wanted to travel and see the world. I still want to do all those things.” You smooth your thumbs over her cheeks. “What did you want, Jane?”

 

She doesn’t answer for a long time, then says, “I wanted to raise a family.”

 

She shrugs out of your grip. “I wanted the whole nine yards—little house in the suburbs, white fence, two-point-five kids and a dog. I wanted to be a mom, so badly.” She gives a tiny, shuddering little sigh. “I gave up on that dream a long time ago.”

 

“Why?” you ask, and follow her, sitting down on her bed in front of her. “Why would you give it up?”

 

She sits down next to you and smiles thinly. “Having a husband was always part of that plan, too. I can’t very well raise two-point-five kids without him.”

 

The wistful notes in her voice kill.

 

“But I also learned that maybe I’m not wife material, either. Maybe I was never meant to be the soccer mom who drives her kids to games and bakes cookies for their teachers. Maybe I was always supposed to be what I am now.”

 

“Why can’t you be?”

 

It kind of slips out.

 

“Why can’t you be that mom, that wife who tucks in her kids and cuddles with her husband on the couch?” you ask, and your heart is beating very loudly in your ears. “What’s stopping you from chasing down that Prince Charming and nailing him down in holy matrimony?”

 

She shifts. “My Prince Charming doesn’t exist, or if he did, he’s long gone by now.” She hugs herself. “I would love to have all that in my life. I really would. I want the two-story house with the tree by my kids’ windows that’ll be good for sneaking out when they’re older. I want the treehouse and the lemonade stands and staying up all hours of the night bouncing a fussy baby.” She scrubs at her eye with the heel of her hand. “I would love to have a nice big kitchen and an _actual_ kitchen table.”

 

She stands up, turns around, and gestures at herself. “But look at me now, Dirk. I can’t sleep at night without remembering what it’s like to be scared. I can’t eat without knowing someone else is lying dead in a gutter because I wasn’t fast enough to catch their killer. I can’t function without this job, Dirk, it’s all I have.”

 

You stand up, too, and you grab her hands. She’s trembling, face crumpling under her tears.

 

“You have me,” you say clearly.

 

That does not quite have the desired effect; she bursts into full-on sobs and buries her face in her hands. You hug her tightly to you.

 

“We’ll finish up this case,” you say loudly, “and when it’s done, I’m putting my foot down. No more murderclowns, no more mobsters, no more Batterwitches, none of it. We’ll keep investigating for the police and for private clients, but no more murders, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. Okay?”

 

She hiccups and nods. Your chest is wet.

 

“That’s fair,” she sniffs. “I’m…I’m _tired_.”

 

You hear the emphasis and know she’s not just referring to the fact that it’s after three in the morning now. You take that as your cue to turn off her lamp and get the two of you settled under her covers, and as she dries her face with her (your) shirt, you swallow a few times to wet your throat enough to say what…what you wanna say.

 

“And…about Prince Charming,” you mumble into her hair, “he…might be out there still.”

 

She hiccups again and chuckles. “Are you going to hunt him down for me?”

 

“Something like that,” you say, and snuggle her closer. “Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

 

She yawns and within moments is conked out. You listen to her breathe for what feels like an hour or so longer and finally drift shut, hearing screen doors slam and children’s laughter in your head and all throughout the sweet smell of cupcakes.

 

==>

 

Jane’s phone blares in your ear. She reaches across you and picks it up.

 

“Hello?”

 

You squint your eyes tight against the sound and groan.

 

“Thank you,” she says after a while, and rolls over the top of you to get out of bed. You wheeze.

 

“That was the hospital,” she informs you as you groggily sit up. “She’s awake.”

 

Oh. Right.

 

She takes a quick shower while you eat some cereal, then you take your turn while she eats breakfast, and you’re at the hospital within an hour and a half of waking up.

 

“She’s been asking for you,” a different nurse from last night says after learning Jane’s name, and shows you in.

 

The troll is sitting up, her face a swathe of stitches and bandages. Her horns are glossy with troll-grade keratin paste filling in the notches. She looks an achey colorful mess of bruises and cuts…but she’s alive.

 

“Vinnia Weller?” Jane says cautiously, and the troll nods.

 

“Jane Crocker,” the troll says back. “I’ve been looking for you.”

 

Her voice is flat and bland. You wonder at it, then remember her apartment.

 

“You’re lucky to be alive, Ms. Weller,” Jane says.

 

“I don’t believe in luck,” Ms. Weller replies. “If I was lucky, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

 

That’s understandable. You take a seat and watch as Jane stands at the foot of Ms. Weller’s bed.

 

“Well, here I am,” Jane says simply. “We assumed you were dead, Ms. Weller. Not many trolls make it out of the Mirthful Church’s clutches alive.”

 

“Fair assumption,” Ms. Weller says, and hacks through a laugh. “I thought I was dead, for a while.”

 

“How did you escape?”

 

“There are some priests,” she says, and coughs, “who aren’t fans of the Grand Highblood.”

 

Interesting nugget. You’ll file it away for later.

 

“Did they help you?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“And how are you still alive? Clearly Kurloz did his best with you.”

 

“If he did his best, I would be dead. Don’t patronize me.” The troll runs her tongue over her fangs. “He…said he wasn’t going to kill me. Not yet.”

 

“Why?”

 

For the first time the troll has a spasm of an expression across her face. “I…he…he said I was…important.”

 

“Important for what?” Jane asks. When Ms. Weller doesn’t answer she gives a tiny sigh. “Ms. Weller, I understand what you’ve been—”

 

“You don’t!” Ms. Weller says violently. “You don’t understand, you can’t! He has power, power you can’t imagine!” She shudders hard. “Blood and screams in the Dark Carnival, eternal night to watch the stars in their spheres and wait for the Old Ones, the Messiahs—”

 

“And at the Vast Honk be welcomed into Shangri-Lol,” Jane says, and her voice is also flat and hard and shivery. “You’ll find I understand quite well where you’re coming from, Vinnia.”

 

The troll blinks, then nods.

 

“Can you help me?” she asks, and her voice is small and scared.

 

“I’ll try,” Jane nods. “What is it you need?”

 

“I wanna—I want to help you stop him,” Ms. Weller says.

 

“How?”

 

“He kept me for a while,” Ms. Weller shivers. “And the priest who helped me escape showed me a secret way in and out of the Big Top. I can show you, and I can help you strike at the Grand Highblood when he is at his most vulnerable.”

 

Jane pulls up a chair from beside Ms. Weller’s bed.

 

“Tell me everything,” she says, and you stifle the curdle of fear in your gut.

 

==>

 

Vinnia Weller is released from the hospital after four days with the admonition to take it easy and stay on her pain medication. That is what she’s currently popping in her mouth as she, you, and Jane approach the Big Top on foot. It’s even more gruesome in-person, because with the smell of sour sugar and smoke it’s a little harder to pretend the brightly-colored splotches are paint. Though it’s not as big as you initially expected, but it makes up for it by being a veritable small city of tents and shacks made of assorted debris. There’s trash and junk everywhere.

 

Jane had attempted to get in touch with Karkat. Mysteriously, his phone was answered by a gruff-voiced troll clown who told her in no uncertain terms that if she came to his Karbro again with this case he was going to take club to nug and beat the genius out of her. Jane had only snorted with the response that she wasn’t exactly a genius and to make sure Karkat was safe before hanging up. So you’re going in alone this time.

 

Ms. Weller is wincing and stumbling a little on her feet, but leading the way as you skirt around and duck through the heaps of assorted carnival trash to avoid being seen by patrolling mirthfuls. Eventually she comes to what looks like a manhole cover, a big-nosed smiley face scratched onto its surface.

 

“This leads directly under the main tent,” Ms. Weller pants, and you lift it up. More of that sickly-sugary smell. Some kind of soda? “It’s the pipeline for massacre and baptisms, so it swells up about twice a day with that revolting pop of theirs mixed with water. We should be right in between the times.”

 

Jane goes down first, then Ms. Weller, and then you. The sludgy Faygo mix comes up to your knees and is icy cold due to the season. You prod your sword on your back to make sure it’s clear of the liquid. Jane is toting another gun, though she tells you often that she misses Li’l Seb and she wishes John would give it back to her already. You’re not sure how she got it, and you don’t ask.

 

“The Grand Highblood has a nocturnal schedule,” Ms. Weller continues as you slosh through. The tunnel slopes downward, and footing is treacherous. “Right now, he should be fast asleep in his sopor.”

 

“Remind me again what the plan is once we do find this guy,” you say, though you know perfectly well, you’re just maybe hoping that plans have changed.

 

“We take care of the problem,” Jane says, voice flat. “By any means necessary.”

 

“We’ve got to be quick. If he wakes up we’re done for,” Ms. Weller replies. “If we all attack together and aim for his head and his chest, it should be short work.”

 

You are about ninety percent positive this is not going to work. You would like to say that in the likely event of failure you would stay and let the womenfolk escape, but you know good and well you are planning for the possibility of throwing Weller back into the Church’s clutches if it’ll buy you enough time to get Jane out. But you’re trying not to think about that, because that is an equally distasteful option and it will cause more arguments.

 

You’re going for his throat.

 

You walk in the pipe, pretty much in complete darkness with only a troll with nightvision guiding your way (you didn’t realize they could do that. Awesome), for a long time. Your hand is on Jane’s shoulder, as hers is on Ms. Weller’s, so when she finds the ladder she’s looking for you accidentally plow into Jane and cause a pileup.

 

“Ow,” Ms. Weller says for emphasis. “Alright, stay close. We have to be quick and sneaky up here, just in case there are more clowns walking around.”

 

You don’t know why there wouldn’t be, but you adjust to the dim purplish light as Ms. Weller goes first and slides away another cover.

 

Showtime.

 

Inside the Big Top, it’s surprisingly structured, like they built solid walls after the tent went up. The floor and walls are very glossy, though sticky and coated with glitter and indigo accents. You wonder how exactly they made that, then realize you don’t care. The three of you set off at a brisk trot, your head on a swivel and ears pricked. You’re on high-alert.

 

“Just down this hall,” Ms. Weller breathes, and when she comes to a set of double doors decorated with “:0D” and “)0:” she pauses, shuddering a breath through her nose.

 

“We don’t have to do this,” you say, and the look both of them give you is sobering.

 

You never did say you weren’t a coward.

 

The door glides open silently. For whatever reason, it’s that that sets your teeth on edge. As you creep in, you notice the plethora of horns scattered over the floor, the clubs, the multicolored blood paintings, and more Faygo and glitter than you ever thought would be in the sleeping quarters of even the leader of the murdercult you’re currently infiltrating. Dude has problems.

 

In the corner hangs a huge recuperacoon, larger than any you’ve ever seen before, and, inside…

 

“Empty,” Jane hisses.

 

“How? I don’t understand,” Ms. Weller whispers frantically. “I don’t—”

 

The doors swing wide open behind you, and as you turn, sword unsheathed and at the ready, your stomach swoops. _This was a bad idea._

 

Of course, that swoop pales to the sickening plunge when you realize that, flanked by at least eight indigobloods and sporting an ugly bump on his forehead, it’s Cal Little beaming at you instead of the Grand Highblood.

 

“Oh, very clever, Detective Crocker, very clever indeed,” he simpers. “I wouldn’t suggest trying anything, you see. You’re in the heart of clown country, after all.”

 

He has a point. You don’t put down your sword. Beside you, Jane reinforces her grip on her gun, and on the other side of her Ms. Weller’s hands clench and unclench.

 

“Take them,” Little says. “The Grand Highblood wishes to welcome our guests with the highest honors.”

 

All eight trolls move at once, and you know when you’re beaten, so you sheathe your sword. It’s stripped off your back entirely and thrown into a corner, as Jane’s gun is done for her, and the three of you are press-ganged into the knot of mirthfuls while Little leads the way.

 

The corridors of the Big Top are twisting, and you lose your sense of direction in about five minutes. All around you hear honks and demented laughter and sometimes screaming. Occasionally trolls with large purple hoods and bowed heads walk by in solemn assemblage, breaking their stride only to call hail minstrels and club one of their number over the head, right between the horns. You fumble for Jane’s hand and hold it tight, before your arms are shoved behind your back and held securely by hands stronger than yours.

 

You are led through another set of double doors, this time elaborately painted in what looks like a mural of two skull-like figures, one set with eyes glittering red, the other green—are those cherubs? But you don’t have time to process, because you’re stopping.

 

“Permission to enter the presence of His Homicidal Holiness,” Little squeaks, and after a moment that seems grudging to you the doors swing open. You’re led into a huge room, set up in bloody parody of a three-ring circus, at the center of which sits a throne that could sit a family of four comfortably side-by-side. The walls are lit with candles that burn bluish, stuck into the skulls of trolls and humans and carapaces lining the floors and shelves, dripping black wax everywhere. The shadowy light makes the troll sitting in the throne even more impressive.

 

So this is the grand poobah murderclown.

 

He looks much different in his element, sitting tall and straight, his wild facepaint glowing in the half-light and his hair an untamed mane of sticky grossness. Though his skin hangs in folds there are still muscles beneath, powerful and capable. Sitting beside his throne are a pair of clubs studded with steel nodules. In his mouth is still the strange pipe, the bowl a deep orange and fading to yellow closer to the nib it gets. It swirls with streams of silvery smoke.

 

“We have delivered the captives, as you instructed,” Little says, and the ancient troll merely inclines his head. His eyes appear to be shut. All is darkness under the shade of his hair and beneath the ply of his paint.

 

“I thought you said trolls weren’t your type,” you find yourself saying, because the silence is what is making you antsy (or so you tell yourself). Little chuckles and turns towards you. He flicks his head, and the troll holding you cuffs you hard enough to make you dizzy.

 

“I said rustbloods weren’t my type,” Little says. “As you can clearly see, blood of a much richer hue is my preference. Why settle for peasants when you can have the kings?”

 

He looks at Ms. Weller. “Vinnia, so good of you to bring them into our little trap.”

 

“I did as instructed,” Ms. Weller says, and her voice is…there are no words. It is absolutely devoid of any inflection or emotion. “I want my freedom.”

 

“You’ll get it when I order it and not a moment sooner,” Little chuckles, and inclines his head. Ms. Weller is wrestled to her knees and dragged to stand by Little.

 

“Are you surprised, Detective?” Little asks. “Are you itching with anger? Are you positively kicking yourself?”

 

“Of course not,” Jane says, and her voice is steady. “I’m disappointed, of course, but given that I am right where I want to be, I see no downside here.”

 

You know that tone of voice. She’s furious. But she isn’t going to give Little the satisfaction. Your heart sort of swells.

 

“I’m not sure why you would want to be here at all, Jane Crocker. Such a filthy place to meet an ignominious end.” Little shivers delicately.

 

“It was you the whole time, then,” Jane says. “You had Vinnia Weller abducted, then called me to solve her kidnapping, knowing that in the end you would be found out and that I would come here. Why? To kill me? If you wanted to do that, all you would have to do was hire someone or do the deed yourself. Why make me jump through all these hoops?”

 

Her voice has started to tremble, because you feel it, too—you feel something like a gentle claw being run over your brain, a little pinprick of fear sliding cold and wriggling into your spine.

 

“Oh, Detective Crocker,” Little sighs, “if only it were that simple. You see, you suffer from an ailment I myself do. Do you know what that is?”

 

You swallow hard. Jane’s jaw tightens.

 

“Self-absorption,” Little says, and giggles. “You’d like to believe this was all about you, the famous detective, back from the dead and oh-so-brilliant and clever. But Miss Crocker, you were only the juicy side dish to my real catch of the day.” He turns his flat blue eyes to you, and your stomach makes a valiant effort to empty itself out.

 

He waves his hand, and the mirthfuls step back. You couldn’t move if you wanted to anyway. That wriggling little worm of fear has multiplied into lots of little worms, digging through your flesh, making you sweat and feel frozen in place. Little stalks towards you, fingers your chest, and grabs a fistful of your shirt to yank you down.

 

“I told you before,” Little murmurs, “and I’ll tell you now. Your heart is property of me and me alone, Dirk Strider. Your soul is mine. Your brain is mine. Your body is mine. Nobody else can have you because you are _mine, mine, mine_.” He giggles, and his hands close around your throat, not strangling you, but possessive and constrictive nonetheless. You’re forced to your knees.

 

“Did you really think you could escape me?” Little asks. “Did you honestly think I’d let you get away from me? I, who gave you everything? You’d be nothing without me! You _are_ nothing without me!” He lets you go, picks up a club from one of the trolls ringing you in, and stalks towards Jane, who is clutching at her head and also on her knees, breathing hard and shallow. Your heart leaps into your throat. Your limbs won’t move. “Did you think she could protect you? That she could _love_ you? No one loves you like I do, and no one ever will!”

 

He raises the club. “I’m going to kill her, Dirk, and then you’ll have nothing, and you’ll be mine, mine forever!”

 

He swings. You let out a strangled yell and lurch forward.

 

A massive hand catches the club in mid-air, and with no more effort than rolling a huge shoulder…Cal’s arm is off. He chokes and stumbles, and Jane shoves herself sideways, towards you, and you catch her as she stumbles and pull her into you just as those huge hands make quick work of the rest of Calvin Little’s body, literally tearing him limb from limb with wet ripping sounds and grinding of bone. For the second time that week you’re sprayed with someone else’s blood. You are numb. You can’t believe anything that’s going on. You shield Jane’s head against your chest and watch in morbid fascination.

 

The Grand Highblood, Kurloz Makara, still smoking his pipe, eyes burning bright and gold in the darkness, steps on the remains of the man who ruined your life for fun and wipes his dripping hands on the floor, spreading the stain and throwing the meat and bones into a basket held by an attendant.

 

“Get the heretic’s remains,” he rumbles, voice like age and old bones, “OUT OF MY SIGHT.”

 

The snap of fear in his vocal chords has the mirthfuls around him scurrying. The Grand Highblood watches, then sighs, moving and creaking like an old man back to his throne.

 

“Let the rustblood free,” he says, and sounds bored. “She’s done her duty. HER DUTY HAS BEEN PERFORMED TO THE FULLEST DEGREE.”

 

Vinnia Weller’s captor lets her go, and without a look back at you or Jane walks out of the room. You listen hard, and there is a short squeal and a solid thump. The Grand Highblood grins.

 

“Such it is written,” he says. “THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A TRAITOR TO LIVE.”

 

You swallow, but can’t say you’re overly sad. She did lead you here to have you killed, after all.

 

He settles with a sigh and a creak into his massive chair, and leans his head on one enormous fist. His horns, which spiral and curl upwards for what feels like another good three feet, tinkle a little with the gold chains woven between them. You’re still clutching Jane and still afraid to move, but even in your increasingly-hazy mindset you can tell that the Grand Highblood is sporting some serious bling. It’s a little impressive.

 

“Jane Crocker,” he says. “GOOD TO MEET YOU FACE-TO-FACE.”

 

“We—we’ve met,” Jane stammers, pulling free of you. Your arms are nerveless all of a sudden.

 

“Yeah, we’ve met,” he says quietly. “MANY A TIME WE’VE LAID OCULAR ONE ON ANOTHER. But today is when we meet and on equal ground.”

 

“I’d hardly consider this equal ground,” Jane says, and he laughs, rattling and dusty.

 

“EQUAL FOR ME, I MEAN,” he says. “I confess myself disappointed. I AM ALL UP AND DISAPPOINT.”

 

You’re starting to understand that the pitch of his voice directly correlates to how much you want to pee your pants at the moment.

 

Kurloz Makara shifts and creaks again. “You fell in headfirst, though the signs were told that it was a trap. SIGNS WERE SPRINKLED LIBERAL AS SIN AND YET CRANIUM FIRST YOU WENT.”

 

“Perhaps,” Jane says. You wish you were as steady as she sounds, though she’s still sitting on the floor. “It could also be argued that I was merely curious how far down the rabbit hole I would go if I took this case.”

 

He chuckles. “The girl is clever,” he says. “THE GIRL IS UP AND RIFE WITH SUPPOSED KNOWING.” He flicks his eyes at you. “And the boy let her go. THE BOY LET HIS BELOVED WALK INTO MY NEST AND NEVER BATTED LASH OR SHED TEAR.”

 

You don’t know what to say to that.

 

“He let me because he trusts me,” Jane says instead. “And you’ve given me the unfortunate task of telling him, yet again, that I’m not worth that trust.” She glances at you, and the sadness is what finally cuts through your fear. She stands, and you take a little longer to find your legs, but you do, and walk to stand beside her.

 

The Grand Highblood watches you, his dimmed gold and purple eyes surveying the two of you, and he barks a laugh that could possibly be a cough.

 

“How soon’d you guess,” he says, “OR DID YOU JUST ALWAYS KNOW I’D COME?”

 

“When you chucklevoodoo someone to the point where they have to hurt themselves to snap themselves out of it,” Jane says, “you would do well to not keep whispering in her brain that you’re coming for her.”

 

He chuckles again, lower, more sinister. “Why don’t you walk me through it? TELL ME WHAT WAS PASSIN’ THROUGH YOUR NUG.”

 

“You played a heavy hand,” she snips. “Given my history with tracking your descendant and his path of destruction, you should’ve known I would know exactly who was involved the moment I saw the phone.”

 

He nods. “As I foretold. GO ON.”

 

“Once I knew you were connected, it was a matter of making sure Calvin Little’s plan panned out as he expected,” Jane says. “If I wanted to, I could have had him arrested on a far more innocent charge than attempted murder and then dragged the confession out of him. But in order for him to get what he deserved—and for you to feel as though you’d won—I needed to play as though I was walking blindly into his traps.

 

“I was not expecting,” she says, and hesitates.

 

“Wasn’t up and expecting Li’l Cal to have his eye on another prize?” the Grand Highblood chuckles. “PRESUMPTUOUS BLASPHEMER WAS RIGHT.”

 

“No,” she admits. “I wasn’t aware of his history with Dirk. But once I was, I’ll admit, it made the game much less appetizing.”

 

You’re not sure if you’re queasy or touched.

 

“But it did answer the question of why he was involved at all,” she continues. “Because you knew, didn’t you? You knew that if you could get Little to play the game, you’d have a sure way to get me on your own turf on two different levels.”

 

“And sure as sure, so it is,” the murderclown nods.

 

“But why get me to play at all?” she asks. “What would be the point?”

 

“The point?” he rumbles. “THE POINT, MY SMALL-THOUGHTED CHILD, WAS A TEST. You ain’t unclever for a reason. ALL UP AND BEAT MEENAH AT HER OWN GAME. Beat a troll wench who’s been thieving and scheming longer than even my sweeps.”

 

“So it was a test for yourself,” she says slowly. “Pit your wits against mine and see who comes on top. Am I wrong?”

 

He merely nods.

 

“Test myself,” he says, “TEST YOURSELF. MOST FUN I’VE HAD IN SWEEPS.”

 

He coughs, a guttural sound, and taps out his pipe, refilling it with whatever he’s smoking from a pouch hanging from the arm of his throne. Once it’s tamped back down he lights it.

 

“When last I had this much fun,” he says, “I UP AND GOT MYSELF A NEW PIPE.”

 

You finally understand what the pipe is, and are definitely queasy.

 

“Rufioh Nitram, I assume?” Jane says, and he nods.

 

“So what trophy do I take,” he muses, “WHAT TOKEN DO I RECEIVE FOR WINNING THE GAME AGAIN?”

 

You want to protest, but you look at Jane, who is still very steady. Still. Too still. She’s afraid, you realize, and then second-guess your own realization. Do you really know Jane as well as you thought you did, if she knew the whole time what she was walking into and you didn’t?

 

But then you notice her hands, which are shaking, and the round of her cheek, which is pulled in like she’s chewing.

 

Kurloz Makara stands, and you resist the urge to back up. He stalks towards the two of you, circles, huge hand stroking chin.

 

“What to commemorate the occasion,” he murmurs. “WHAT TO UP AND TEAR FROM YOU SO YOU KNOW WHO WON.”

 

Your throat constricts.

 

“Meat rots,” he says. “BONES BREAK.”

 

“Memories last,” Jane says, and he pauses.

 

“Memories last,” he agrees. “DID YOU HAVE ONE IN MIND?”

 

“No,” Jane says, “but you can pick and choose.”

 

He _grins_ , sharp teeth on display and paint crinkling.

 

“Sis knows how to lose the game,” he says. “SISTER UP AND KNOWS HOW TO GIVE WHAT IS DUE.”

 

Jane reaches behind you and grasps your hand. You feel her bones tremble.

 

“Choose one,” Jane says, “and we’ll call the game over. You win.”

 

Her teeth grind a little.

 

He approaches, still grinning, and even if it isn’t being used against you, you can feel the slimy tendrils of harshwhimsies crawling up your skin as he envelops Jane with them. She holds your hand hard, fingernails digging in, and you don’t dare to touch her further until he’s done.

 

At last he walks away, and Jane gasps, her knees buckling. You catch her, swinging her up into your arms.

 

“This has been an entertaining game, children,” he says. “LOOK AT THE MEMORIES WE UP AND MADE HERE.”

 

“And now we can go?” you ask, because Jane has her face pressed to your neck.

 

“Now you can go,” he nods. “GET OUT OF MY CHURCH BEFORE YOU TAINT IT WITH YOUR ATHEIST HANDS.”

 

You don’t need telling twice. You follow the direction he’s pointing and then the waiting mirthful who grunts and starts walking. You ignore the deep red stains on the wall behind you and walk on, ready to drop Jane and fight back if the occasion calls, but the troll keeps walking, and you keep following. You don’t really breathe until you see daylight again, and even then, you don’t really feel right until you’re in the apartment and staring at Jane as she stares at you.

 

“You knew the whole time,” you say simply. She nods.

 

“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid,” she says. “Though I can’t say it was just to protect you this time. If I was really protecting you, I would never have taken it.”

 

You’re not sure what to say. She’s lied to you, again, and over something life-threatening, again.

 

“Will we never learn to actually trust each other?” you say, and she sighs, breaking eye contact to rub her neck.

 

“Maybe we just aren’t supposed to,” she says softly. “Maybe…maybe it’s time we both moved on.”

 

She stands and walks into her room. You don’t follow. You stare out the window, thinking.

 

_Did you really want things to be the same, Dirk?_

 

You rub your face. You need a nap.

 

Then you want to go see your brother.

 

==>

 

You arrive at Dave’s around dinner time. You know this because there is an amazing smell wafting out and you know Dave didn’t cook it, which means Minnesota must be over again. Cool.

 

You knock, wait for Dave to yell that it’s open, and waltz in, only to pause a fraction of a second over the sight of Dave in a frilly apron actually cooking. Minnesota is over, sitting at the kitchen table and directing Dave while she operates a handheld fan. It’s freezing outside, so you don’t know why she’s doing that, but whatever.

 

“Hey, Bro,” Dave says, “pass me the coriander.”

 

“I’ve been waiting all my life for you to say that to me,” you say, and avoid getting side-kicked.

 

“Special reason why you’re here?” Dave asks, and you shrug.

 

“Almost died again today. Thought I’d pay you a visit.”

 

The line of Dave’s mouth spasms.

 

“It’s a sad testament to your life that I don’t know if you’re joking or not.”

 

“Nah, bro. Totally serious. There was a murderclown and a shady figure from my past. Who is dead. Might need to tell someone that.”

 

It hits you that Calvin Little is dead, and it seems like such a weird time for you to be struck by that, and you sit down kind of hard.

 

“Bro?”

 

You look at Dave, who is definitely frowning, and shrug.

 

“Just. Uh.” You take off your shades and rub your eyes. “Look, I’m not going to ask a pregnant lady to leave, but could you keep this just between us, Minnesota?”

 

“I gotcha, honey, you just say what you need to say,” Minnesota says seriously. You feel cheered by her maternal presence and nod.

 

“You remember Calvin Little, Dave?” you ask, and Dave gives a nod, slamming his mixing spoon down harder than necessary. “Well…he called Jane last week with a case. We worked the case. We got totally screwed over by the case. The case took away our lollipops after promising to give us sweets. We were bent over the lap of the case and spanked mercilessly.”

 

“Bro.”

 

“Anyway, she uh.” You can’t seem to stop rubbing your eyes. “Look, she kinda lied to me again, alright? But I can’t really get mad at her for lying, because she only does it when she needs to protect me but I just wish she would tell me stuff instead of leaving me in the dark and letting me try to carry on by myself for two years, okay? And it was dangerous and I couldn’t do anything to fight back because fearmongering murderclowns and—”

 

Dave switches something off at the stove, then pulls up a chair in front of you.

 

“You can totally get mad at her for lying to you, Bro,” he says. “You should. You should get mad and you should tell her that you don’t like it when she does that. She shouldn’t use you like that, even for your own good.”

 

You look at him, all unshaded, and he sighs and takes his own off. It’s been a while since you’ve seen his eyes bare.

 

“You were miserable while she was gone,” he says, “and you’re miserable now. But a different kind of miserable, you feel me? Those two years, that was the misery of eternal despair. This…seems closer to some kind of frustration. So. What’s up?”

 

You look at him, and he chuckles and sits back.

 

“Oh, Bro. Oh, dude.”

 

“What?” you frown, and he outright laughs.

 

“You got it bad for this Jane girl,” Minnesota says, and you flush, hot and hard.

 

“That’s—I don’t—”

 

“Like an eighth grader at a spring formal,” Dave says. “Like an itch that needs a scratch. Like a stew that needs coriander.”

 

You cross your arms. “Alright, so what if I do? So what? It’s not like we can ever be a thing, alright?”

 

“Why not?” Dave asks.

 

You pause.

 

You’ve always had a plethora of reasons of Why Not whenever you even errantly thought of Jane That Way—you’re better off as just friends, she doesn’t need your emotional clinginess, she’s dead, she’s damaged, she shouldn’t have to handle your load of crap every time you get lonely or jealous. You don’t know if you can trust her, really trust her.

 

“This Jane girl,” Minnesota says, “you known her a while?”

 

“Long time,” you nod. “Real long time.”

 

“Has she ever lied to you, son? Ever lied to you about stuff that really matters?”

 

You consider her own life something that really matters. But even then, she had her reasons. Good reasons. Ironclad reasons. As in, your life for her life reasons. Other than that? You can’t think of a single time she told you a lie. Didn’t tell you some things, changed the subject other times, but when it comes down to it, you can ask Jane practically anything and she will be straight with you.

 

You shake your head.

 

“You think about her all the time? You wanna be with her in that emotional way most kids your age are still lookin’ for?”

 

Well…yeah. You swallow hard.

 

“You want things to go back to normal how they was before? You wanna go back to that?”

 

You’re not sure how she knows—you suspect Dave—but it all clicks together and seems very, very simple.

 

You stand up. “I gotta go.”

 

“Not before trying my stew first,” Dave says, and you humor him. It tastes awesome. Then he pats you on the back. “Good luck.”

 

You smile, hug him and Minnesota goodbye (her belly is not much bigger but you imagine it is, because you’ve realized anew you’re going to be an _uncle_ ), and stride out into the world. You know exactly what you need to do.

 

==>

 

It takes some wrangling, but Jane comes back one night about a week later after going out with Roxy and stops dead in the doorway.

 

That is because in her breakfast nook, instead of the faithful old card table, there is a beautiful walnut table with curved legs and a dark finish, big enough to seat six people easily. It comes with matching chairs. It also comes with you sitting on it, wearing the floofiest prince getup you could find, pantaloons included. Her mouth drops. Her eyes get wide.

 

“Jane,” you say, and she claps her hands to her mouth, “I’ve got something I wanna say.”

 

You stand up, adjust your pantaloons (they ride up), and walk towards her. Her eyes are shimmering with tears.

 

“I think we’ve had a hard run, you and me,” you say, and she sniffs hard. “I don’t think things will ever go back the way they were between us.” You stop, a foot or so in front of her. “But…I don’t think I want them to.”

 

You drop to one knee, and Jane bursts into hysterical teary laughter as you manage to grab one hand away from her face, after she wipes it on her jeans.

 

“There’s a lot that’s wrong with you and me,” you say, and you marvel at how easy it seems to say this, when usually you have such a hard time saying what you mean. “And I guess we need to build up that trust we used to have. But…I want to. I want to trust you. I want you to trust me. I want to…” You chew your lip, because wow okay here’s the hard part, “I wanna be the one you go to when you have problems, and I wanna be the one to make it better. I want to do all the dumb romantic movie things with you.”

 

You reinforce your grip on her hand and hope she can’t tell your palm is a little sweaty. “I…think I want to try and be your Prince Charming, Jane.”

 

It’s a little hard to talk further (and you had more planned to say), because Jane Crocker has thrown herself on her knees, her arms around your neck, and is kissing you like there’s no tomorrow.

 

You kiss her back and feel something clunk into place that’s been missing for a long time—some missing piece, a forgotten number in the equation.

 

“I love you,” she murmurs when you have to draw back and breathe. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry I put you through everything. You don’t deserve me, you don’t deserve any of my problems—”

 

It’s your turn to shut her up, and you say the only thing that comes to mind.

 

“I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.”

 

The kissing goes on for quite some time, until you pull back, and she blinks and looks at you.

 

“I need to change,” you say. “I need to have these back at the costume place in an hour and they really itch.”

 

She laughs so hard she snorts, which sets you off, and you both sit on the floor and laugh and kiss each other.

 

You’re late getting the pantaloons back and they charge you an extra ten dollars for it, but you’re holding Jane’s hand and you don’t even care that it’s about to rain outside.

 

==>Dirk: Be the Uncle

 

You are the uncle to a bouncing baby boy, whom his parents have named Django Strider.

 

“I’m so sorry, kid,” you murmur to the baby as you bounce him by the window. It’s a lovely early summer day outside at Dave and Terezi’s apartment, and behind you the very, very late baby shower is going full swing. Jane is sitting with her brother, who will be getting married next week, and keeps winking at you when you catch her eye. You grin back.

 

“Got the short end of the stick on the naming game, but them’s the breaks when your mom is a psycho,” you continue murmuring. Django is still too little to do much more than stare at you, but he’s a cute little kid, red-eyed already and with a fuzzy head of white-blond hair. This kid is definitely Dave’s.

 

You look out the window, and frown.

 

On the building on the opposite side of the road, you see a man. He’s tall, in a white shirt, and wearing a white baseball cap on his head. On his face are pointed shades like yours.

 

You stare, and he hesitantly lifts one arm and waves.

 

You bite your lip, turn to look at Dave, and the call dies in your throat when you see him tonguing his girlfriend over something or other. They’re going to get married soon, too, though it won’t be the debacle John and Vriska’s is turning out to be. Karkat is yelling at Vriska about something, while Gamzee and Jade and Rose coo over a pair of baby booties from Kanaya. You turn back to the window, see that the man is still there, and partially show baby Django. The man nods, and you wave one of Django’s hands.

 

“Whatever are you doing, Dirk?”

 

You look back to think of an answer to Jake’s question, look back out the window, and see that he’s gone.

 

“Nothing, just showing the kid the world,” you say, and readjust Django in your arms.

 

“See you around, Bro,” you say softly, and turn to give someone else a turn with the baby.

 

You and Jane walk out of the party later, hand-in-hand.

 

“I think it’s going to be a lovely summer, Mr. Strider,” Jane says. You lean down and kiss her.

 

“I think you’re right, Miss Crocker,” you say, and her phone rings. She digs it out, frowns and answers it.

 

“Yes, Detective Oswald? Is something the matter?”

 

You grin as she nudges you towards the car.

 

“How mysterious indeed, Detective,” she says. “We’ll be right over.”

 

“Duty calls?” you ask, sliding into the driver’s seat.

 

“With urgency,” she laughs. “Someone has relieved a very wealthy carapace of his jewels without opening the safe.”

 

“You just tell me where to go, Jane,” you say as you turn the car on. “I’ll follow.”

 

“I know,” she says, and you look at her for a long moment and smile.

 

Your name is Dirk Strider. Your life is catching criminals with your best friend Jane Crocker, who is also your girlfriend, and it’s been a long time in coming but you finally feel like your life is back on track.

 

The sun shines down brightly as you drive off into the unknown.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. There ya goo. It happened. :D
> 
> Now, at some point after the hype has died down (such as it is), I am going to be hosting a special event on the Sherlockbound askblog (asksherlockbound.tumblr.com), which may involve baby Django and his future cousins! Keep an eye out for that, but until then, the askblog is open, so ASK AWAY!
> 
> Once again, thank you so much to everyone who's been supportive of me in my writing and who all helped to make this possible just by existing. Big sloppy kisses for all of you. You rock. <3


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